On giving myself time

I went to the museum recently
and realized I wasn’t there for inspiration.

I was there for permission.

Permission to slow.
To look without needing to respond.
To let something inside me settle before asking it to speak.

Next time, I’ll bring my sketchpad.
Next time, I’ll go alone.

Not because I need isolation,
but because my creativity asks for quiet first.

I’ve learned this about myself:
before I can paint, I need ease.
Before ideas arrive, my nervous system needs to feel unhurried.
Before anything meaningful takes shape, I need to feel safe enough to listen.

It usually takes a few days.
Three, if I honor it.

This isn’t avoidance.
It’s care.

We talk so much about discipline and output,
but my work begins somewhere softer.
With walking slowly.
With lingering.
With letting my social battery refill until there’s room again.

Museums help.
Solitude helps.
So does releasing the pressure to produce on cue.

Lately, I’m allowing myself to trust this rhythm.
To believe that rest is not the opposite of creation,
but its quiet partner.

Nothing meaningful needs to be rushed.
And I’m no longer asking myself to try.