 I’m settling into a cozy spot in my apartment here in Columbia, South Carolina. It’s warmer outside than I remember it being since I first moved here two months ago. This morning I opened up the door to my patio and was immediately greeted with warm, hot sunlight.
It was weirdly reminiscent of Florida. I had my coffee while reading a fantasy-romance novel. It’s the one book that’s been sitting on my shelf that I’ve been meaning to finish, though life kept getting in the way. And as I sit writing this, it’s Sunday afternoon. I just finished a short painting session in my studio. Something new is blooming, brewing. . . Breathing.
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 This morning, I brought a glass of water to my outdoor patio and watched the sun rise through the tree branches. My favorite thing these days is watching nature move at its own pace outdoors. It makes me a little envious if I’m being honest. To have societally approved permission to move at your own pace. In today’s world, it seems like everything is always encouraging you to move faster. So, this week, I’m challenging myself to move slower.
At this point it has been a month and a half since I quit my career in property management and committed myself to my art career. It’s been a month and a half since I started creating art after (virtually) a two year break. Two years where I was moving on autopilot through life, lost about who I was, and fulfilling obligations and responsibilities. Living within the box that I unwittingly stepped inside. Boxes, boxes, boxes. It's all I could think of. Being inside them, breaking out of them. . . And so a new series emerged. Her name is Breathing.  It is 8:50AM, as I write. I woke up earlier than usual today. Feeling peaceful and eager to create. I had some cinnamon toast and water out on the patio, watching the sun start to rise up above the rooftops of my new neighborhood. A reminder that I moved states for the first time in my life, moved apartments twice within three months, and left my stable career in property management.
If you told me two months ago that I would be here, I don’t think I would have believed you. I would have probably been a little scared, though the fear would melt away, and reveal itself in its true form as excitement. Really? Yes, really. Isn’t that how it goes? No risk, no reward?  How do you talk to yourself, your younger self. . . The one that knows you are meant to be an artist? I’m going to get a little intimate here. There are three days left to my 30 day journey, and I woke up to heavy rain and thunder outside my bedroom window. Cozy, lending to a feeling of reflection. When I woke up this morning, it felt as if water had drenched my body, and was being wrung out slowly. Tired, yet new. I felt some sort of expectation that I should feel differently than I did on day one, when I started all of this. Don’t get me wrong. I definitely feel different. I feel more myself, and more connected with what I want. But I don’t know if I feel better. There’s still something in me that yearns for the approval from others, just in a different way. Instead of seeking the “good job” from my employer, I now seek feedback from the work I publish online. There’s higher stakes, it feels like, and I’m on somewhat of a ticking clock. I don’t feel fireworks, drums beating, cheers in the distance. It’s just another day that I wake up with the thought: I want to be an artist.
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