Rediscovering an old, forgotten treasure – barely touched, but quietly waiting – is a comforting gift as I learn to wait patiently for my body to heal and be ready to move back into the studio.
This morning I sat with that truth for a long, still moment. As the steady ticking of the clock kept gentle cadence with the rising sun, something settled over me like grace instead of regret:
I have always loved and collected journals and sketchbooks. I own many, yet only a few are filled and several remain untouched – so many sitting in limbo for years, held back by the fear driven fallacy of “messing them up.”
With age, I am gently defeating that lie. Life is brief, tomorrow is never promised, and no act of creativity is ever wasted – even when the product of the process doesn’t match the vision that first called it forth.
Now, as I grow older and look back on the many years gone by, I feel far more sorrow for all the moments I never recorded than I ever felt for any imperfect line, any handwriting that wasn’t lovely enough, or any watercolor that fell short of my imagination or my dreams.
Moments, art supplies, and blank pages are only wasted when we aren’t present with them… when we overlook and leave them blank for fear of messing them up.
The only thing that messes anything up is letting fear, doubt or insecurity drive us in the first place.
🙏🌀✨
c.
catacosmosis 
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