Everything is a song to me.
Whatever I’m going through, a song usually pops into my head and goes on repeat — like my inner world has its own soundtrack.
Today’s song is The Waiting by Tom Petty.
The waiting is the hardest part.
And honestly… it really is.
One of the hardest things for me is pacing.
I tend to rush toward completion. I get impatient waiting for layers to dry. I get impatient waiting for something to develop. I want to see where it’s going right now. I want resolution. I want clarity.
But painting doesn’t work like that.
Lately, I’ve been practicing sitting with a piece longer. Just staring at it. Letting it exist with me. Waiting for it to tell me the next move instead of forcing one.
Because sometimes when I don’t wait — when I make a mark too quickly — I get that instant feeling of regret.
That quiet crap… I should have waited.
It’s not always that the mark is wrong.
It’s that I moved from impatience instead of readiness.
So I’m learning to let pieces sit. To slow myself down. To resist the urge to fix or finish or fill space just because silence feels uncomfortable.
I’m also trying to wait for meaning to come through.
A lot of my work is open to interpretation, and that’s intentional. I don’t want to attach rigid meaning to my pieces because I don’t want to define what others see. I want each person to meet the work where they are. Let it strike them differently. Let it land in its own way.
That matters to me.
Then, almost like a contrast, another song drifts in — In the Waiting Line by Zero 7 with Sophie Barker.
It’s quieter. Mellow. More introspective.
Do you believe in what you see?
That one hits differently.
It feels like questioning the pause. Like wondering if waiting means nothing is happening. Like maybe we’re just standing still, wasting time.
And I recognize that feeling too.
Here’s what I’m noticing lately (through both painting and life):
Waiting itself isn’t the problem.
It’s what my mind tells me about waiting.
If I tell myself:
“I’m behind.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“I should be further along.”
My body tightens. I get restless. I start forcing things.
But if I tell myself:
“Something is forming.”
“This needs time.”
“I don’t have to rush the process.”
Everything softens.
Same moment. Different story.
I think that’s what I’m learning right now.
Waiting isn’t empty.
It’s active.
It’s where things settle.
It’s where intuition gets louder.
It’s where meaning has room to arrive.
I don’t actually hate waiting.
I hate uncertainty.
Waiting asks me to sit in that in-between space — not finished, not figured out, not fully revealed. And that’s uncomfortable. Especially for someone who likes momentum.
But that space is also where the work becomes honest.
So I’m practicing letting layers dry.
Letting ideas breathe.
Letting meaning emerge.
Letting myself be unfinished.
Not rushing the next move.
Not forcing clarity.
Not turning the pause into a complaint.
Just honoring the process.
Because sometimes waiting isn’t doing nothing.
Sometimes waiting is the work.
