She sat, drawn, on my easel for at least a week. But I was too intimidated to start. Is that right: intimidated? Yes, in part. But tired, distracted, worried, self-absorbed, in the mode of I'm-only-fooling-myself-'cause-I'm-no-painter. Yes, lacking confidence. But, there I was walking into the room, having announced I was going to paint for two hours on Saturday morning. So, I painted. Better than being a liar in front of my kids.
So see, it was like going to the dentist, or finally starting on your taxes or that essay. Something that feels like it must be done, but the little kid inside shies away, whining that it might hurt or it's going to take too long or I caaaannn't do this. The adolescent self thinks I'm perpetrating some bohemian lifestyle, striving to connect to transcendent truths. Ha, says the adult: painting isn't that different from showing up for your annual exam; sometimes you just have to pull on your big kid shoes and go. And yes, it does hurt a little.