Note to Self : There’s a reason people paint flowers

Some people paint faces. Some people paint landscapes. Some people paint the creatures they see in their dreams.

I paint flowers.  

 Well. Actually, I draw all those other things to but my “go to”, the thing I draw when my brain is not really thinking and my hand is moving on it’s own accord, that would be flowers. 


I don’t have a “why” except maybe I love them. The flowers that my dad called weeds that grew in the hay pasture. The flowers that my mom spent hours taking care of I’m her garden on hot and humid nights. The flowers that, to my teenage mind, meant true love on Valentine’s Day.


But as I painted them {and painted them and continued to paint them} as an adult I grew a bit ashamed. Because, at the end of the day,  my inner critic tells me that these are “just flowers”.


And then, my brain {the one who is constantly fighting my inner critic} kicks in.Monet, Van Gough, O’Keefe : Three “big name” artists who I can name off the top of my head who were into painting flowers. 


I wonder if they had an inner critic that tried to stop their hands from doing the thing that it most instinctively desired to do. The thing that, for a moment, quiets the noise of the critic {both real and imagined} and simply creates. 


Maybe these flowers have a job. 

Maybe that job is to simply remind me that it’s not the voice of the critic that matters.  

Maybe that job is to encourage me to follow through with the teenage notion of true love, the love that I extend to myself.  


So I will continue to paint flowers. And hope I learn the rest along the way.