Alexis, my eldest daughter, wrote on her blog yesterday about her struggle to come to grips with her inner voice mocking her for the fact that to heal from an eating disorder and depression she needed to use antidepressants.

And in the world millions and millions of voices rise up and say, Thank you. Thank you for the courage to speak up, speak out, speak of this thing so many do not acknowledge — that sometimes, to survive a day we need help. It is in our willingness to reach out that we find the courage to learn how to shine.

As I wrote on Alexis blog, it is the courage to surrender and let go that gives us the strength to get back up and fall in love. It isn’t how we get there, it is that we get there that makes the difference.

Years ago, when I was in therapy recovering from a relationship that almost cost me my life, I asked my psychiatrist what it was that kept driving me to take these big experiential steps to get to where I wanted to be in life. “I like where I’m at,” I told him. “But did I need such a big experience to get here?”

He laughed and told me that there were 1,000 paths to where I wanted to be. This was just the one I happened to take. It’s judging the path that was the problem. Not the route I’d taken.

That made sense to me. Especially because I was an expert self-judgment hurler. No matter the judgment others might throw at me, I always knew I could out-do them. I was my own worst enemy.

I had to give it up. Give up judging my path. It wasn’t the path I’d taken to get to where I wanted to be that made the difference, it was my acceptance of every part of my path that changed my direction and turned me around to face myself in Love. Because, in my acceptance of all of me, however I judged myself — good, bad or indifferent — I was making choices to love myself, or not.

And so, I chose to accept who I am and to let go of my judgements about how I got to be where I was at, or where I am. Here I am is what matters. Do I like where I’m at? Am I feeling grounded, centered, free? What choices am I making to love me as I am, where I am? Do my choices celebrate me and the world around me? Do they send out ripples of harmony and love, or discord and unrest?

I have spent much of my life fearing the beauty within me. Today, I know the truth. No matter the path I took to get here, I am magnificent. So are you. We all are — because that is our birthright. Magnificence.  That is the gift of life we are given when we come into this world to celebrate every step of our  journey.

In my journey, I have learned to dance with the sun and the moon. To dance at the edge of the waters of life ebbing and flowing upon the tides. I have learned to dance in the rain and under the blanket of night. For in my dance there are a thousand steps, and everyone of them is a dance of Love. In love, I have learned to express all of me — the joy and sadness, the laughter and tears, the love and sorrow I feel ebbing and flowing with every breath I take. for no matter how I dance, I am and always will be magnificent.

And I am grateful. In my daughter’s dance with darkness, she has found the light of Love shining ever brightly. And in her courage to reveal her path into the light, she shines magnificently for all to see their way through the darkness. How beautiful she is in her dance of life as she calls out to each of us….

Come, let’s dance!

It was a weekend to remember. To celebrate. To dance. To cherish. A weekend like no other, but then, this weekend never happened before, and will never happen again, because like today, it was unique, different, one of a kind. Special.

The art show was fabulous. It was more than just the fact I sold 5 paintings. It was all about joy and experience and sharing and being part of something I never before imagined, and now wonder why not! But that’s the thing about what we ‘cannot imagine’. We have to let go of our belief we don’t know. We have to move above the line of telling ourselves that not experiencing what we don’t know keeps us safe. We have to breathe into the purified air of falling into the wonder and awe and joy of living beyond our comfort zone to find what it is we don’t know that we have yet to experience. We have to cast our ‘knowing’ into the wind to free ourselves to fly out there where we are living it up, living large, living beyond our wildest dreams in the rapture of now.

I had lots of affirmation of  my artistic abilities on the weekend. Lots of feedback on what and how I was doing which was lovely and affirming and gave me a sense of wonder — it is nice to know the beauty I paint is seen as beauty in the eyes of others. And, in the process, lots of opportunity to share with other artists the joys, and perils, of putting yourself out there, onto the canvas.  One man, he came to see the show and bought one of my paintings, is an artist who makes his living through his painting. When I asked him if he teaches (I want to paint horses and he showed me some photographs of his horse paintings, and they are stunning), his reply got  me thinking. “I don’t teach because I don’t know what I’m doing. I just paint what I see.”

Paint what I see.

When I heard him say that, the voice inside my heart whispered, I paint what I feel.

It surprised me that voice, but it felt so true, so right, so real. I paint what I feel.

What a lovely thing to know and be immersed in.

And then, yesterday, I spent the late morning, early afternoon with my mother. I took her to the market. We had one of Phil and Sebastians to die for coffees, wandered the aisles (did I mention she’s a speedo with her walker? Crazzzy fast!), checked out the wares and bought each other flowers. And then, I took her to one of my favourite little restaurants in Inglewood, Jacquelin Susan’s. It was a delightful time to spend Mother’s Day and to celebrate the woman who gave me birth.

Later, my youngest daughter along with my step-daughter, took me for dinner at our favourite restaurant. Lele brought me flowers, and together we celebrated, life and living and loving and being part of this amazing thing called family. C.C. came to join us for dessert and we spent another hour laughing and sharing in the joy of our connections.

It was late when we got home so I waited to read my eldest daughter, Alexis’, blog.

I’m glad I waited. My heart needed time to breathe so it could savour the beauty and spirit of her words.

When Alexis was a little girl she used to write torrents of poetry she called, The Mommy Poems. Usually, these poems were written in the angst-filled moments after an incident where she felt particularly unheard, unseen, unknown by me. They were always dramatic, heart-driven, deep emotional poems filled with the honesty only a 5 or 8 or 12 year old young girl can create when she is so connected to her heart her lungs do not have room to breathe. They were also very raw. And, did I mention, emotional?

After whatever the altercation, Alexis would stomp off to her room, scribble away and then, after an appropriate period of time to allow me to stew in the wrongness of whatever I’d done or said, she would appear and promptly inform me she had a Mommy Poem to share. Often her sister would be there too and Lele and I would desperately try to keep straight faces as Alexis performed her poem for us. It’s not that they were funny or that we were making fun of her. It’s just that they truly were creative and deep and so over the top in drama-filled angst that it was hard to believe they really were her thoughts and feelings — and they were. All her.

Unfortunately, many years later, Alexis discarded her Mommy Poems. I always thought they warranted keeping and possibly pulling together into a book.

I’ve always missed Alexis’ Mommy Poems and this Mother’s Day, Day 132 of her amazing The Wunder Year blog, she has honoured me with one of her poems.

I am blessed. I am touched. I am speechless. My heart cries for joy, my body yearns to wrap my arms around her slender form and whisper the most powerful prayer in the world – Thank you.

Thank you my darling daughters for being you. Thank you for the gift of your light, your love, your being. Thank you both for sharing your beauty and your grace.

Love you more than all the words that will ever be spoken.

Promise me you’ll always remember: you’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. — Christopher Robin (to Pooh)

When I was a little girl I loved to draw. Faces fascinated me and eyes held a particular appeal. I liked to draw cats and dogs and horses too, but eyes were the real draw. My sister loved to write poetry and my brother to play music. Given that all four siblings had to learn an instrument, that I took dance, and sang in talent shows and in the kitchen doing the dishes with my sister Anne, it’s obvious that the arts held some import to my parents. But still, I never felt as though I was supported. I never believed my creative expressions had any relevance to my mother and father. Combined with the teasing and poking that my brother and sisters liked to dole out and which I as the youngest seemed to attract on a regular basis, I grew up believing my artistic yearnings had no value. No inherent place to shine under the sun.

And then there was the trust issue.

I didn’t trust people’s reflections of my work. In my teens, I sang and I sang. Sometimes people told me I sang like an angel. I was creative and expressive. I acted in school plays. I wrote diddly’s for class performances. When my eldest sister ran for School President, I took over the job of creating all her posters. Beatniks were in, and man, could I draw a mean cool dude. I was quick on the one-liners, and even faster on the turn of phrase. I had so much going for me and I didn’t believe it. And woe the day you tried to tell me so. I didn’t believe you either.

Fast forward a couple, okay more than a couple, of decades and here I am sailing through the twilight glow of my 50’s about to shine in my first art show, when what do I come up against? My lack of trust in what people say.

Yup. I may have grown in years, added a few pounds and many grey streaks. I may be considered wise in areas of my expertise and I may even be known as an advocate for our city’s disenfranchised. It doesn’t matter how many times I’m quoted, or how often I’m asked to speak on an issue, or represent a cause. Nope, all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve accomplished pales in the face of what’s really at the heart of my hesitancy in my creative expression. I’ve still got trust issues.

I felt it last night. As my two painting cohorts and I wrapped and taped and drilled holes for screws and wire for hangers in our canvases, one of my painting buddies looked at one of my completed pieces and said, “Wow Louise. You’re so talented.”

And that’s when it happened. That’s when the critter of self-doubt and denigration leapt onto centre stage. “Liar, liar pants on fire,” he screamed inside my head while outwardly I smiled and said, (graciously I might add) “Thank you.”

Later, as I chatted with C.C. on the phone about my excitement over the art show today, I said, “And it’s okay if I don’t sell anything. I’m just so thrilled to be doing this. It’s been so much fun just getting ready for the show and stretching my painting muscles.”

“Liar, liar pants on fire,” all the voices screamed inside my head. “You bloody well do care. It’s just you don’t want to be disappointed. You don’t want anybody to know you do care because, hell, then they might thing you’re invested in your art and oh my wouldn’t that be a tragedy. They might make fun of you, or call you names or even, horror of horrors, think you’re stupid to even try. You are such a phony. You care. It’s just you don’t trust people to like you if you’re not perfect, and you don’t trust people to be there for you — whether you fly or fall. Face it. You care. Lots. You just don’t trust people to care about you.”

Gosh, those voices can be deafening.

Fortunately, C.C. can hear the voices in my head, and call me on my shite. “Louise, that’s not true. You do care.”

UNCLE!

He’s right. I do.

And here’s a little fact I guess I should be proud of. I’ve already sold two of my paintings just from people seeing the photos here on my blog. Both are allowing me to have the paintings at the show, complete with their little red dots that say…. I’m sold. I mean, really. I’m walking into my first art show with two paintings already sold!  It’s already a success!

Take that you voice of self-doubt and denigration. Ha!

‘Cause in a world of plenty, I’ve got everything I need to trust the universe is on my side and so are my friends and family. Heck, my sister Jackie took time out from eating Moules and drinking wine in Avignon where she and her husband are currently on a 3 week tour of France just to write me a note to wish me well at the show. And Heck again!  I’ve got friends who support me — when I leap and when I fall. And seriously? There’s no room to fall now. My car is packed to the gunnels with bubble-wrapped paintings and art show supplies. It’s all systems go.

Houston. We’ve got take-off. The shows a-waiting and I am trusting in the process to light up my world and give me room to shine ’cause I am. Braver than I believe!

,

On my daughter, Alexis’, blog today, she writes about a disturbing product promoted by the NRA. Zombie Industries markets a line of life-size mannequins for shooting practice. Not just any target, these bleed when a bullet penetrates the skin of the mannequin.  In Alexis’ blog she writes about the disturbing fact that of the company’s 15 mannequins, there is one female. The fact they thought they needed to not appear sexist by creating a female mannequin to even out their offerings is not what is most unsettling. Nope. That’s small potatoes compared to the name they’ve given this abomination. The Ex.

Yup. They’ve got ‘Terrorist’, ‘Wiggles’, ‘the Alien’ and ‘SS Nazi’, all of whom are considered to be male. But the female one comes complete with big breasts, white bustier that reveals a skimpy bright pink push up bra and the target name, ‘The Ex’.

Yes folks, not only did they think it was necessary to create a female shooting target mannequin, they decided the only real woman to shoot at was, the Ex.

Now, this isn’t envy ’cause seriously, I’d rather they didn’t use anything closely resembling human or animal form for target practice. In fact, just so we’re clear, I like Canada’s gun control laws. I like living in a country where owning a gun is not considered ‘a right’.  I like the fact that I can’t just pop into the corner store and pick up a quart of milk, and say, And while I’m here, I’ll take that cute little pearl handled hand gun with it and  3 cartons of ammo too. Oh, and does it come in a gazillion rounds a second automatic-firing version?

But wait! This is Canada. We thoughtfully limit magazine capacity to only 10 rounds. That’s of course, unless you want to use a drill to take out that cute little rivet thing-a-ma-bobbie that limits the magazine capacity. But not in Canada!  We don’t have people who want to cause harm to others who would dream of doing such an illegal thing!  Of course not!

But I digress. My angst isn’t about gun control or even the fact that Zombie Industries could only dream up one image worthy of being their female mannequin, the Ex.

Nope. It’s about the fact we, and yes, I mean all of us, let this happen.

I am 100% accountable for what happens in my life. I’m not accountable for Zombie Industries. I am accountable for what I say and do, or don’t do once I learn about what is happening.

I am accountable for my voice, and my silence.

In Canada, Half of all women  have experienced at least one incident of physical or sexual violence since the age of 16.

On average, every six days a woman in Canada is killed by her intimate partner. In 2009, 67 women were murdered by a current or former spouse or boyfriend.

I suppose, Zombieland would tell me that they weren’t all killed by guns. We don’t encourage gun owners to shoot real people, they’d say I’m sure. We just like to give them something real-like to practice on, cause who knows when an Alien might invade your backyard, or an Ex leap out of the bushes and start acting all crazy like in front of you. Why, if you hadn’t practiced on our mannequin, you might have mistaken her for the 80-year-old widow down the street and hit the wrong target!

Colour me confused. Colour me disturbed. Colour me aghast. But do not colour me speechless.

I once did have a man jump out of the bushes in the dark. I did not mistake him for an 80-year-old neighbour down the street, nor did I stop to chat. I used the best weapons I have. My lungs and my legs. I screamed and ran like a banshee into the light of a doorway across the street.

If I’d had a gun in my purse, I might have thought about sticking around and firing it. Especially, if Zombieland had conveniently me provided me a target named, the Male Ex and dressed him up in Speedo bathing trunks complete with a nice big bulge where his balls should be. Of course, if I had stuck around he might have overpowered me and taken the gun away and who knows what might have happened then.

Seriously people. What are we thinking?

That guns make peace? That guns protect us?

The evidence says otherwise. A woman’s likelihood of a violent death within the home actually increases by 270% when a gun is kept inside the house. Homicide figures don’t lie. Having a gun within their possession didn’t protect women from murder. In fact, it accurately predicted their higher likelihood of death.  (SOURCE:  http://www.policymic.com/articles/40049/nra-vendor-sells-ex-girlfriend-target-that-bleeds-when-you-shoot-it)

So, what do you say? Will you stay silent or will you use your voice. It is a powerful tool for creating a world of difference for all of us.

It began with a vision, an idea to create a piece that spoke of the beginning of time, the universe evolving, life creating.

I swirled and painting and glazed and after many, many layers got it to a place where I was happy, but not satisfied.

I dug in. Deeper. Adding a hint of green. A splash of white. A sprinkle of gold dust.

It was the gold dust that got me.

It was too much. Too shiny. Too chintzy. Too cute.

I painted over it. More swirls of blue and burgundy. It wouldn’t disappear. (Thanks alot Martha Stewart – your gold dust won’t be repressed. Sorta like you!)

I added a door. A bird.

That just made it look ridiculous.

I had to make the decision. What to do, what to do?

I sighed. I hemmed. I hawed. I avoided.

I worked on another painting. And still it called to me. This 36″ x 36″ canvas that had evolved from ‘not bad, I kinda like it’ to, “OMG. I need to give up painting. I have no talent. I am a hopeless amateur.”

I kept going. On another painting. I liked this one. It reminded me of the most important thing that both writing and painting have taught me — Trust In The Process.

I decided to paint over it.

White gesso splashed everywhere. I let the original painting become the under coating. I left parts of the blue exposed. There was no way to remove the textures now, so I left them as they were. Ridges of swirls, raw cotton pulp that was the body of the bird exposed.

And then, I began to trust in the process. I let the canvas speak to me and “He” appeared.

At first, TZ, one of my painting cohorts said, “It looks like Stephen Harper.”

I am a Liberal. No way can one of my paintings look like… him.

I kept working it.

Jesus Christ? Is that who you see? And at one point, it was, Jesus with his crown of thorns. But the face was too broad. He didn’t have a beard. And anyway, I originally saw him as a she — and was still kinda going for the feminine, even as the masculine kept revealing itself more and more with every brush stroke.

I kept going.

And the Shaman kept appearing.

Until last night when I sent my eldest daughter a photo of him and she text back. “Is John Travolta speaking to you?”
John Travolta?

Seriously? How did he get into my painting?

“He must be speaking to you in your dreams,” she quipped.

ha! If Johnnie T. was speaking to me what would he say? Greased Lighting?

“I got chills / They’re multiplyin’ / And I’m losing control / Cause the power you’re supplying / It’s electrifyin’.”

Or maybe in my dreams he’d be screaming in my ear, “Dance baby dance!”

I hear you John Travolta.

Dance baby dance.

And so I dance with paint brush and colour. I throw my body into the air. I leap into the canvas. I dance.

I dance with the sun and the moon. The stars and the sand. I dance at the edge of the waters of life flowing ever through me. I dance with life.

The Shaman aka John Travolta

And in my dance I let go of controlling the process and give into the joy that rises up within me as I give myself up and trust in the dance.

Thank you John Travolta.

Thank you Alexis.

Thank you the sun and the moon and the stars and the sand. Thank you Life. What a dance!

Once there was a man who pushed a shopping cart down the street where I lived. He collected bottles. Sold found objects for a profit. Cleaned up the garbage on the streets and all in all took care of his life in simple ways with simple means. His name was Dave.

He told me his name the first time I saw him pushing his cart past my house and asked him to stop, I have a shed full of bottles, I told him. Would you like them?

His glee when he saw my bottles was contagious. Not only did he clean out my shed of bottles, he also cleaned it up. Took apart the boxes waiting for recycling, packing them up in a neat stack. He swept the floor, threw out the garbage and when I introduced myself, he told me his name. He used to live at the shelter where I worked at the time but had found an apartment on his own that he could afford and was never going back, he told me. No one should live in a shelter for long, he said. It isn’t healthy. There was pride in his voice. Pleasure in how he was taking care of himself. He hadn’t quit drinking, but, he said, it wasn’t getting him down like it used to. “I get by,” he told me. And getting by ‘on the outside’ [of the shelter] made Dave happy.

Yesterday, I sat in a meeting with co-workers to discuss a client who has been lobbing complaints into every camp they can find in order to get some attention to what they consider ‘unfair, unjust and probably illegal behaviour’ on the part of the foundation I work for. Our conversation wasn’t about ‘What to do about ________.” It focused on how to protect the individual from further spiralling into paranoia. On how to ensure they got support they needed as they journeyed through the mental health issues that were at the core of their unease. They were a human being whose life was in turmoil and needed support and my co-workers were intent on finding a path to supporting them no matter how challenging their behaviour had become. And, they were also a human being whose name we refrained from using as much as possible because of Canada’s Freedom of Information and Protection of Privacy Act.

Now, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I think it is vital that every citizen, me included, know that their personal information is protected and that those in positions of ‘power’ take care to protect their privacy. And, I admire my co-workers for being so judicious and considerate in how they protected this individual’s identity, and how hard they worked to find answers that respected not just their identify, but their human needs.

I also remember Dave’s joy when I used his name the next time I saw him after our first encounter. “You remembered my name,” he commented when I greeted him. “That’s nice.” It felt good to know I had given him a small measure of joy through the simply act of remembering his name.

It was the same for a young woman who used the services of an outreach bus that travels our city streets at night, handing out comfort kits, hot chocolate, condoms and other things that street engaged teens might need to stay safe on city streets. I was out with the group to learn more about their work and the lives of the young teens they support. This young girl tottered onto the bus in her six-inch stiletto’s, slipping them off the moment she sat down. A worker stepped up and, noticing the blister on her heel asked if she would like a band-aid. “You remember my name,” she said when he greeted her. “Nobody remembers my name.” And she smiled. real big. A tear formed in her eye.

What ‘s in a name?

So often, for street engaged individuals, their name is the only thing they can cling to, hold onto, carry with them. Their name is the last possession they have that speaks to who they were, how they were, where they were before the street took over. Their name connects them to a past that, no matter how painful, reminds them that they were someone else before they picked up the label, homeless, junkie, prostitute, drifter.

A name is important. Especially when others use it not to call you down, but to lift you up.

As we sat around the boardroom table yesterday, I remembered Dave and the young girl on the bus. I remembered their joy in hearing their names spoken. I remembered the joy I felt in being able to give them something so simple that touched them so deeply and connected us so easily.

It is a delicate balance to walk when working with people whose lives have been torn apart by homelessness, poverty, mental illness and the host of other factors that have taken away so much of what they care about, so much of what they need to thrive in our societies.

What does someone on the street need? What do any of us need? To be seen. To be heard. To be known. To be visible — not as the label we carry but rather, as the human being whose name means something more than just being an unnamed figure drifting amongst the masses.

It’s done it again. Stolen my post. My apologies. Part 2 of my interview with Christine Valters Paintner will appear again. I just have to rewrite it.

Liz, over at Just Be. Love All. Live Life has created a wonderful photo journey for the month of May — an invitation to explore the idea, Who am I?, through the art of photography and reflection.

Just for the fun of it, I decided to sign on. There’s not really much to do to sign on, just leave a comment on Liz’s blog page announcing the ‘Photo a Day for the month of May’ event, and send a tweet or Instagram message to tell her you’re in. And then, every day, turn up, be present, be curious and alive to the question, Who am I?

I’m all in!

All of me. Not just fingers and toes, or lips and back of my neck. I’m all in. Committed to exploring who I am through a photograph a day that speaks to who I am in that moment.

May 1 was, All heart.  May 2, Wild and creative (though I thought afterwards it should be Wildly creative — but hey, that could be me another day this month!).

It’s a fascinating idea — to take a photo of yourself everyday that depicts how you are in that moment.

Last night, as I painted with my two painterly buddies, we laughed and joked about what we were in that moment, and then, I just decided to have fun. It was in the having fun that I realized — taking a photo a day of myself can be fun.

I always look forward to seeing the photo my daughter, Alexis, posts of herself everyday on her blog, The Wunder Year. She’s asked stranger’s, co-workers, her boyfriend, me and anyone around at the moment to snap the shot everyday since she began The Wunder Year on Jan 1. And the collection of photos she has is fun, fascinating and a great visual reminder of where she’s at in any given moment on her quest to fall in love with herself, without her credit card or eating disorder defining her. To accept who she is, exactly the way she is, without needing the crutch of shopping or the perils of disordered eating keeping her playing small.

In our busy, get it done, get it going, get it all now, world, it is easy to allow ourselves to be defined by what we have. Fancy cars, right addresses, big titles all become the benchmark upon which we measure success, ours and others.

Strip away the accoutrements of a modern-day life and the statement, “I am _______________” is harder to express. I am a mother. A daughter. A sister. An aunt. A friend. A co-worker. A neighbour.

Dig beneath the label and who are you really? What makes your heart beat, your feet skip, your mind expand, your lips smile, your belly laugh? What rocks your boat?

In her photo a day invitation, Liz writes, “the other thing that is important to me is the idea of living an authentic life… of being exactly who you are. because all of us are unique, beautiful, and wonderful… exactly as we are.”

Last night as I painted, I was exactly who I was in that moment. Wild and creative.

I threw paint. Dripped it. Lathered it on. I smeared and pushed and rubbed and scraped it all over the canvas. I let myself express my authentic self through the creative wilderness, untethered to the idea that I was defined by what I was doing. I wasn’t.

I was the act of creating. I was the wild freedom of being in the moment, of the moment, all the time.

I was me. Wild and creative. In that moment.

This morning, I am still me but this me is informed by those moments spent dripping paint upon a canvas. This me is informed by all the moments that preceded the last. When I stop to take a breath to capture who I am in a moment in the future, I wonder what I will be experiencing? I wonder how I will express myself. I can hardly wait to see!

I’ll be posting my photo a day throughout the month.

Why not join me, and Liz and her other blog followers who have signed on to be part of this adventure?

You never know what you may discover. You never know who you will reveal yourself to be within the moment of living your life in the rapture of now!

PS. Here’s a hint for my photo for Who am I? today. When I went back to proof this post, the statement, I’m all in, struck me as a great way to be. Now… to figure out a way to photograph myself in the act of living All In!  I’m looking forward to the adventure! Come back tomorrow and you can share in my discovery — and hopefully, share your own photo a day discovery too!

It was one of those wonder-filled days. Busy. Jam-packed. Enlightening. Filled with moments that blew my mind. Crammed with opportunities to explore the more that’s always out there.

The day included a tour of a family shelter that provides emergency care for 14 families. A conversation that expanded ideas into possibilities. A presentation that blew my mind on the power of data to inform decision-making. A panel discussion about ‘safe cities’ where I was one of three presenters to a group of 24 – 40 somethings engaged in making a difference in our city. And then, I painted.

Perhaps it was that I was inspired by the energy of the audience at the panel discussion. Or maybe it was just that throughout the day I kept encountering the expansiveness of possibilities everywhere. Or, perhaps it was just that I felt the call of the canvas inviting me to let go and create. Whatever the ’cause’, the process was divine — even when I decided that painting over one of my previous works was the only way to get it somewhere pleasing.

And so I did. Paint over.

Unlike life, paint-overs really do create possibility. They use what was to create a brand new what is…

Paint-overs rock.

My eldest daughter taught me that many years ago. If you don’t like it, paint over it, she advised me when she was sixteen and I had just begun to paint with her.

My dear friend Ursula had been at me for years to pick up a brush. An amazing artist, she kept trying to get me to join her in her love of creating beauty on a canvas. Don’t believe everything you think, she’d tell me. And I’d laugh and say, No thank you. I won’t like it. You’ll love it, she insisted.

I didn’t believe her.

Instead, I believed the voice inside of me that whispered, “You’re a writer Louise. Not an artist. You can’t paint. You have no artistic ability.”

Don’t you love it when you finally find the courage to prove the voice of self-doubt wrong?

One day, after Alexis had asked to go to the art supply store to pick up some fresh canvas and we’d returned home with canvas, paint and new brushes, I decided to pick up a brush. And fell in love.

Ten years later, I know how wrong I was. I am an artist. I do have talent. I can create! And on May 10 and May 11, I’m in my first art show and sale. How cool is that!

I wonder what else I tell myself I can’t do that really, if I just give myself a chance, I can? I wonder how many limits I set on myself just because saying, “I can’t” is easier than, “I can”? I can’t means I don’t have to take risks. I can’t means I don’t have to step outside my comfort zone.

I can’t keeps  me uncomfortably stuck in my ruts of self-doubt, limitations and inhibitions.

I can sets me free to fly, to explore, to be the more I’ve always dreams was out there waiting for me to become.

Think about it. Everyday we’re faced with opportunities to explore the unknown and everyday, we turn our backs on what is not known or unfamiliar to hold onto what is within the comfort of our known capabilities.

It may be human nature to fear the unknown, it’s also human nature to step into it and fly.

For today, invite yourself to step out of the known into something, new, unexplored, previously untried. For today, let yourself talk to strangers, take a different route to work, wear different coloured socks, pick up a paintbrush, give a speech, ask the guy in the cubicle two over out for coffee, phone the one you’ve been avoiding, say “I’m sorry”, ask for what you want, turn down a drink, turn up the volume and dance.

Let yourself go where you’ve never dared to go. Let yourself be who you’ve always dreamed of being.

Just for today, give yourself permission to do the things you’ve feared, to be the one you’ve always dreamed of being.

Just for today, let yourself fly.

Who knows what you might learn? What you might do? What you might achieve? And along the way, who knows how many limits you might break?

C’mon, just for today, go for it!