There’s too much beauty and too much ache.

How Do I Carry Both?

There are many things I want to say but I just don't always know where to begin.

Maybe that's why I paint first.

There are days when the smallest things undo me.

A leaf moving in the wind. A colour I wasn't expecting.

The way morning light slips across the studio floor before I've even made coffee.

None of those things are sad.

So why do they make my chest tighten?

I still don't know.

Maybe beauty reminds me of everything I was lucky enough to love.

Maybe that's the price of noticing.

Some days I walk into the studio thinking I'll paint what I'm grateful for.

Five minutes later I'm staring at the canvas wondering why every brushstroke feels heavier than it should.

Other days I tell myself, Today I'm just going to paint the sadness.

Then I catch myself reaching for the brightest colour on the table.

It almost feels... wrong.

As though choosing colour means I've forgotten something.

Or someone.

I put the paint back.

Then I pick it up again.

The paint usually wins.

I used to think I had to choose.

Grief or gratitude.

Darkness or colour.

But maybe that's only because I kept putting them in different rooms.

The painting never seemed interested in that argument.

It just wanted me to begin.

I still don't know why beautiful things make me want to cry.

Or why the hardest days sometimes leave me wanting the brightest colours.

I've stopped trying to solve it.

Maybe not everything is asking to be solved.

Maybe some things just want to be painted.

So that's what I do.

I paint.

Then I stand back.

Look at it for a while.

Make another cup of coffee I've probably forgotten to drink.

And start again tomorrow.

— Dura Ki Hana