I'm taking a stand for this one.
There comes a time in our lives when we know to use our hands to steady our hearts. Somewhere around midlife.
For some, it’s knitting, for some it’s gardening, for some it’s baking, for me it has been all of these, but most of all painting.
As I shared in last week’s piece, when my mum died, I took out the watercolours again and again, painting simple lines and shapes, letting them overlap, colouring in, watching the colours blend into one another - it was mesmerizing and cathartic.
Sometimes it was about making something beautiful, sometimes it was just about the soothing nature of repetitive slow movement coupled with intense concentration. I was there, with the paper and the colour and nowhere else.
Nowadays, I still paint to move and shift energy. Sometimes that means angry blobs of dark paint loaded onto a paintbrush and sharp lines made across the canvas. Usually it’s a banging bit of 90s house tunes, singing, wagging my arse around and colours that are the expression of joy. Some on the canvas, quite a bit on the carpet. Or sadness. Or beauty. Or frustration. Or love. Or grief, again.
Because of the kids that are never going to manage on their own, because parts of our bodies are failing and we can’t stand it, because our parents need care or are dying, because our work no longer gives us what it used to, because of our divorce, because of our redundancy, or fear of one, because of our hormones and forgetting how to get out of a car park, because of our friends drifting away, because the dog we have had for twelve years has died.
Because at midlife, all the experiences and all the feelings collide in a massive shit-show. There has to be a way to process all of this. This is where our hands come in.
One friend I have bought herself a colour by numbers as she went through recovery from her breast surgery and radiotherapy. It helps, I know this to be true.
For many women, art was something they loved as a child until someone told them they had ‘got it wrong’. Ridiculous. How can your choices of colour and shapes that feel right to you be wrong? And yet, it was enough to stop them in their tracks. I know for some, seeing me pick up a brush at 52 has emboldened them to do the same, just to see what happens. Or reminded them that although they have painted for years, they have not dared call themself “artist” for fear of what others might think.
Self-expression. That’s what is calling to the woman at midlife. And painting is a pretty safe way to do it, which is good because we can lose our courage at this point in our lives.
Also better than getting a tattoo, declaring your ‘I will not longer tolerate this and this and this list’ to your family in a shouty voice after a female empowerment workshop or running off with a sexy boy from the gym. (Maybe.)
Our hand move to help us get through the mid-life shit show - painting is like journalling only in colour. And after that…once the drama has died down…it’s your time now.
Who are you? What will you do now? What do you even like?
This is what I’m learning. Put down a colour or a line. Forget the ‘rules’. Put down another. And another. Do you like it? Do you even know how to tell if you like something any more or has your people-pleasing numbed that ability out of you up over the decades? You can re-learn to discern what you like. Vital, for this third chapter.
Does it feel good in your body when you look at it? That’s how you know if you like it. If you still can’t tell, stop. Feel your feet on the floor, your breathe coming in and out, any tenseness in your arms or neck. Become aware of your body. Now look again. What happens in your body when you look at what you just did?
I like it, you might say to yourself, shyly.
If you don’t like it, paint over that bit and try another colour (acrylic paints are great for this by the way as with a hairdryer they will dry in seconds and you can paint straight over the top. This is all my hairdryer gets used for these days.)
And if creating something you like the look of isn’t the aim of the game (and it doesn’t have to be); did it simply make you feel better to have spent the time playing? Colouring in with paints or making scribbles? If yes, throw the thing in the bin, your work here is done.
There’s a three year old in there somewhere that likes what she likes, knows what she wants and doesn’t give a fuck.
That’s why every woman over 50 should own a paintbrush.
Tomorrow, 1st April, you’re invited to an online evening of art, poetry and self-discovery. Bring a journal and dip yourself in beautiful colour and words for 90 whole minutes. There’s no cost to join. Learn more here.
And on 28th July, I’ll be running the first ever live Creatrix Day, if you’re up for meeting in real life. This is one-day in-person creative immersion for writers, artists and entrepreneurs. Come hold a brush with me.