Silk Paper and Side Eyes

There’s something comforting about writing by hand. The pen doesn’t rush me. It doesn’t interrupt or expect a performance. It lets me arrive as I am—unfinished, unpolished, uncertain. I’ve been journaling for years, mostly in solitude, mostly without any clear purpose except to stay connected to myself. But recently, I turned a few entries into something I could share online. And to my surprise, it felt good. Like I had taken something deeply personal and held it out in my palm—not to be admired but just to say, this is real.

Not many read them, but what mattered was the gesture. The quiet rebellion of turning private words into something meant for others. There’s a kind of bravery in that, I think. Not the loud kind, but the everyday kind.

Right now, life feels like a pile of open tabs. I have a big editing project waiting, and dozens of sumi-e style ink paintings stacked in uneven piles, each one needing to be signed, sorted, titled, and framed for an upcoming exhibition. It’s exciting—at least in theory. But the weight of so many unfinished things has left me in a kind of freeze. Some days, I drink too much coffee, and the buzz it gives me keeps me in an unproductive frenzy. Other days, I find myself eating past fullness, chasing that familiar ache that dulls the rest. Not because I’m sad, exactly, but because I feel too much at once.

And still, I’m grateful. For every unexpected form of support. For the bits of income that arrive just when I need them. For the help from people who care quietly and consistently. For the chance to shape my days around art, language, nature, community, writing, reading, even when the pressure of survival threatens to eclipse the joy of it.

I know I’m procrastinating. I know I should be doing the “real” work—selecting pieces, ironing warped pages, finding the right frame for each painting. But instead, I restrung an old guitar. It doesn’t stay in tune, but I don't care much. I needed to do something with my hands that didn’t ask for perfection. There’s a lesson there, maybe. That not every act has to lead somewhere. Some things are worth doing just because they bring you back to yourself.

Socially, I’ve been navigating strange emotional weather. We went dancing the other night. The music was incredible, the kind that gets into your bones. I danced, I laughed, I felt briefly and blissfully alive. But beneath the rhythm, I noticed small fractures—friends feeling distant, unspoken tensions, someone I may have hurt without realising. It’s hard to hold both joy and regret in the same breath. But I’m learning. I’m learning that presence doesn’t mean perfection. That you can mess up and still be worthy of love. That showing up again the next day is a kind of grace.

There’s a retreat coming up—a few days of silence and reflection. I might go. I might not. But even the idea of it feels like an invitation: to slow down, to listen, to step back from the noise and ask gently, "What do I need?"

And maybe the answer is simple. Maybe I just need to remember that I’m allowed to be in process. That art doesn’t have to be polished to be meaningful. That life doesn’t have to be tidy to be beautiful.

So no, I don’t have it all together. The inbox is full, the artwork is unfinished, the floor needs sweeping. But I’m here. I’m writing. I’m dancing when I can. I’m pausing long enough to notice the way the light falls on the wall beside me.

And for now, that’s enough.