Do you remember learning how to write? Or count? Or tie your shoelaces or  do a thousand things you do everyday, without thinking, now that you’ve mastered their doing?

Do you remember those first hesitant movements to create a consonant or vowel on the page? Or those first tentative thoughts adding up two numbers?

In this world of information overload and technological connections spreading news as fast as a wildfire searing through the woods, learning to read and write and do arithmetic is a seminal activity. Anything is possible once the letters and numbers on a page become clear.

I was reminded of learning to read and write last night as I headed back into the studio. I took Beaumont for his walk. Emptied the dishwasher. Thought about watching some mind-numbing TV or playing solitaire on my iPad.

I chose to walk into the studio instead. Like learning to read or write, or any new task, it can be scary to face the possibility of creating something out of nothing. It can be daunting. It can make me want to go and clean the toilet just to avoid the expansiveness of that blank page calling for my creative expressions.

I did it anyway because I want to Everyday, create a little beauty. Share a lot of love.

And the only way I can do that is to take actions that create the more of what I want to have in my world.

Everyday, create a little beauty. Share a lot of love.

Part of art journalling is the allowing myself to experiment, and to learn.

My nature is to want to make it all perfect. Yet for me, art, by its very definition, is perfect exactly the way it appears, not the way I think I need to make it happen.

To allow perfection room to appear in its own creative way, I must allow myself space to breathe into the perfection in every imperfect stroke of paint, little dot that’s not quite completely circular or cursive letter that isn’t quite equal in size or weight to the letter before it.

I must let go of judging the outcome and allow the outcome to be the perfect expression of my creative process. I must give myself room to be imperfect to savour the perfection of the moment.

Just me and the page. Me and the paints and inks and tools of the trade that bring such joy to my heart I feel at times it just might burst.

And of course, now that he’s perfected the art of the stairs, I get to enjoy having Beaumont on the floor beside me, chewing on a rawhide or playing with a toy, or, as happened last night, one of my shoes he surreptitiously carried down to the studio for his own personal chewing enjoyment.

Now that’s perfection!