Why is it so hard to do the thing our heart cries to us to do? Why do we, okay, why do I, stall? Why do I let go of the tow rope when I’m sailing along only to tumble beneath the surface into cold waters of self-doubt and recrimination? Fear? Sloth?

When I listen, when I give my heart what she wants — to make art — we’re both so happy. Maybe I shouldn’t call it “making art.” Maybe I should just call it playing with my watercolors and acrylics, my markers and paper trove. Make implies a finished product and finished product is weighted with judgment. Make implies an end while play remains firmly within a borderless present.  Yes. Yes. Yes.