Finding My Joy Again
I think a lot about low-motivation moments. I’ve been having a lot of those lately. I live in the space of “I don’t wanna” and “maybe tomorrow.” I look at the momentum I had in the later summer of 2020 through the early summer of 2021 and I feel like I’m looking at a ghost. Where did that person go? I’ve had to acknowledge that this summer has been more challenging than I thought that it would be — more than I was expecting — and it threw off my groove. So, now I’m finding myself in a low-motivation cycle, looping in grief, and I’m trying to make sense of it. I’m on a journey to find my joy again.
I’d been painting an average of ten paintings a month through May. I was on track to complete 120 paintings this year — a wonderful increase from the 70 that I completed in 2020. I’d quit my job in finance in 2020 and I started selling my paintings. I’ve been painting for eighteen years. It’s something that I can DO. I hate that I’m part of a generation (and living in a society) where we’ve come to live with the expectation of profiting off of what we love, but I’d come to terms with needing to show people my art (and needing to sell my art). It wasn’t fair to keep my gift to myself.
I anticipated 2021 being a better year of growth than 2020 had been, and for a while I was able to maintain that trajectory. In mid-June I encountered some personal challanges. I decided to take the month of June off to focus on myself. By the end of the month our oldest dog died (quite unexpectedly; on a Friday we found out he had leukemia and Saturday he was gone). I felt like the peace I’d made in other areas of my life didn’t matter compared to the endless, crippling grief of the loss of my dog. In a society where we don’t acknowledge human loss enough, we certainly don’t acknowledge pet loss; we don’t give it the recognition it deserves.
Suddenly, my best friend was gone. The last link that I had to my past. The last individual who really knew me. We’d been through everything together: grad school, bad relationships, a lot of growth, and the start of a pandemic. When he’d entered my life in 2010 I just KNEW that we’d be together for at least fifteen years. When I took him to the vet because he was falling I was expecting an arthritis diagnosis. I wasn’t expecting to hear “brain lesions” or “leukemia” or “internal bleed.”
After he died, my body started hurting. I couldn’t hold a brush in my hands. I just wanted to lay around. I didn’t want to do anything. My second dog motivated me enough to take him to the park every day. But, by the time that I got home after a mile and a half walk I was lucky to accomplish anything — and I certainly wasn’t going to be painting. There was something too overwhelming about setting up my studio. I couldn’t imaging painting even thirty minutes, let alone the hours that I would need to finish a painting.
I began to feel like a failure. Not only had I failed to survive a toxic environment in corporate America (note: leaving a toxic environment isn’t a failure), I was now letting my small business fail because all I could manage during the day was taking my remaining dog for a walk. These feelings contributed to MORE low-motivation feelings.
In June I’d purchased a new iPad. I’d been so excited about the purchase. I couldn’t wait to use it to expand my business. I just knew that it was going to be an amazing tool that would make everything that I did so much easier! Other than making some really basic sketches, I wasn’t using the iPad at all. When Kjell of Bats Wear Black posted an art challenge, I wasn’t sure if I was going to participate or not. I love his art. I’d really wanted to participate in his challenge. I drew a sketch out on a canvas. And I set it down on my desk and stepped away. I didn’t have the energy for that. My mind kept returning to the iPad. What if, I began to think, I did this on the iPad. People make digital art all the time. What if I really tried? So I did it.
After completing my first real piece of digital art, I began to think about other things I could make on the iPad. Next, came a shark portrait. Then, the bat.
I’m not finished making larger pieces or working with physical paints. Digital art, for me, is another tool. I’m incredibly thankful for my tablet. It’s allowed me to take small, manageable steps back into the world of creating. I’m back to sharing my perspective. I’m back to showing animals and color — and my sharing joy.
My journey is still ongoing. I still have joint pain. It’s been almost three months. But, grief doesn’t have a time limit. And I know the important thing is still moving forward, even if it’s a little slow.
