I once had a therapist (I’ll call him Stuart, because that was his name) who told me that life is like a painting. “It’s your canvas,” he said. “You’re the artist.”
This would have felt more inspiring if he hadn’t also compared my emotional maturity to a “toddler finger-painting with rage.”
But the metaphor stuck. Mostly because I like to imagine my life as a painting hanging in some obscure museum’s hallway; somewhere between a Civil War boot collection and a stuffed squirrel posed to look like he’s playing the banjo. There it is: “Untitled (Still Becoming), mixed media, occasional panic attacks, 1966–present.”
The thing is, my painting isn’t done. Of course it’s not. It can’t be. I’m not dead, and barring any unfortunate zucchini-choking incident, I still have time left. But here’s the kicker: it also kind of feels complete. Not in that smug, eat-pray-love, “I am whole” way. More like: this is what I am. A half-painted mess of color and texture, with a suspicious stain in the corner I no longer feel the need to explain.
There was a time, in my thirties and forties, when I tried to edit the canvas. I’d go over the awkward brushstrokes with something more socially acceptable, like something snazzy from Banana Republic. I’d airbrush over the weirdness, the insecurity, the lingering suspicion that everyone else got a script and I somehow missed rehearsal.
But lately, I’ve grown suspicious of the very idea of “fixing.” What if the strange shape in the corner isn’t a mistake, but the whole point? What if the parts I thought were too loud, too much, too off-kilter, are actually the parts holding the whole thing together?
I am not a masterpiece. I am not a disaster either. I’m that painting you walk by at a gallery and go, “Huh.” And then you walk back, because there’s something about it; a wonky charm, maybe. A bit of heart peeking through the chaos. A feeling that someone was trying, really trying, to get it right in their own deeply uncoordinated way.
It’s taken years, but I’ve grown comfortable with the idea that I am perfect; perfectly myself. That’s a terrifying thing to admit in public. Especially in a world that makes its money off reminding you that you are a fixer-upper. That your skin could be tighter, your kitchen whiter, your soul more mindful if you just bought this twelve-part course on being less of a disappointment.
But I’ve tried all that. I Marie Kondo-ed my closet and found a 2007 receipt for a Blockbuster rental. I did yoga until I pulled something I didn’t know I had. I meditated and mostly just got better at napping while sitting up.
Eventually I stopped trying to “arrive” and just started staying where I am.
Which is here. Right now. A little unfinished. A little chipped around the edges. But not lacking. Not broken. Just in progress, like everything else that’s real.
Maybe the secret is realizing that the painting doesn’t need a perfect frame. Maybe it just needs someone to stand back, take it in, and say, “Yes. That’s it. That’s the one I want to live inside.”
Not because it’s flawless, but because it’s mine.
And if someone walks by and says, “What is this even supposed to be?”
Well, they can go admire the stuffed squirrel. I’ll be over here, adding a bit more color to the corner, thinking: yes, that’ll do. That’ll do just fine.
Join us in making the world a better place – you’ll be glad that you did. Cheers friends.