Apparently, drawing every day has begun to get the best of me.
I remember I used to run every day. Years ago this was. And I loved it.
The thud of my feet, the way I’d would forget that I was breathing, forget that I was moving at all until I paused for a moment, for a barking dog or a perpendicularly passing car – and then my heart would slam into my ribs and my lungs would feel as if they may explode at any given moment. My head would swim and then I’d move again, picking up my feet faster and faster, until they no longer felt heavy. And my breath would again turn into simple counting, 1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-8.
I quit running because I started to feel like I had to do it. I still loved it, but I resented the hold it had on me, hit a slump and hated that I felt like I had to rise above it. So, I didn’t bother trying to rise. I put away my shoes and I sat down.
I’m not going to quit drawing. But, I might start running again. (Don’t hold me to that.)
Stupid to quit doing something that you love, even if you can’t stand that you love it. There are a million exceptions to this statement. There are certainly plenty of things that we imagine we love that we probably ought to quit. But, if real love is the feeling that comes from actions and interactions that feed our highest and best selves, our most true truth – then a lot of what we ‘love’ isn’t love at all, is it?