Part 1 of 3: Blank Canvases — Brushstrokes in the Cycles of Life

I am bathed in a soft glow as I step into the studio. Rays of light shining through dust suspended in the air like falling stars, and yet everything is so still. The canvases scattered across the room are forgotten, waiting patiently to be filled with memories and magic. Tall windows rise above them. With one hand outstretched, I walk among them, fingertips grazing the surfaces, some still tacky with dripping paint, their half-finished images elusive, just beyond recognition. In my other hand, I clutch my paintbrush. My lungs fill with the faint scents of turpentine, hesitation, and potential.

Life is full of blank spaces — periods where stillness is required, patterns change, and uncomfortable growth stretches and pulls us in opposing directions. Life is like a dance between wanting to cling too tightly to every piece of the past and forcing ourselves to step boldly into the future. There’s always one constant though — the unwavering truth that life will continue to move with or without us. It moves whether we flow with it or resist it, feet planted against the tides. Like brushstrokes on a canvas, we can sweep our brushes over blank slates to create something beautiful. Each stroke may not align perfectly, but they belong to us all the same. Or we can leave the brush stagnant, pooling in paint until the weight of it drips down the canvas; bubbling from the heaviness of sitting still too long.

As I stare at these canvases, I haven’t yet grasped their full power. Though intimidated by their starkness, I feel the hum of anticipation. One thing I do know is the undeniable pulse emanating from them — the vibrant, unfinished canvas that holds a steady promise, standing next to it’s darker twin, which seems to draw the warmth from the room. This muted canvas intrigues me; it fits here like a piece of a puzzle, drawing breath from its lighter sister. Though I don’t fully understand why, I sense that if one were to vanish, the balance and rhythm would be lost. I feel the weight of the dark canvas on my shoulders, its breath pulling me in while the softer canvas exhales warmth across my cheeks and neck, clearing away constriction and fog. In and out, in and out, my body sways with the energy of these unfinished works.

Then, in a sudden revelation, I understand: these canvases are mine — the unfinished works of my memories and roads. I look around at this studio, flooded with the memories of my quest for identity and wholeness, on my soul’s journey in the universe.

What held me back from finishing these pieces?

As certain as my next heartbeat, I feel the pulse of purpose, though I still don’t know where it will lead. I grip my brush, dip it into a deep midnight blue, and turn to the darkness. The tip of my brush meets its target, feather light bristles cut across the vastness with uncertainty and tentative strokes, letting it all turn blue.

and the cycle starts.

As I turn to the darkness with my brush in hand, the journey is only beginning. Join me as I confront the unknown and let the canvases guide me toward what’s waiting, brushstroke by brushstroke.

Photo Unsplash Credit Max-Jakob Beer