Hello beautiful people,
Let’s talk about stories. The convincing ones. The ones our minds write with absolute authority.
I recently signed up for a painting class at a local college, and much to my excitement — or not — I got in. I was going back to school.
This class is for people over 50. No grades. No critique panels. Just a creative outlet. For fun.
I used to paint 50+ years ago, and a few of my intuitive friends have asked me about my painting. So, to give us something real to talk about, I decided to actually start painting again.
Then the syllabus arrived.
It was intense.
Full of terms I didn’t understand.
Techniques I had never heard of.
So much information about materials that sounded far more serious than the little sketch pad I was holding.
I double-checked to make sure I was enrolled in the right class.
And then… my mind got busy.
Here were my “story” truths:
The teacher would be rigid.
The room would be critical.
Everyone else would be more prepared.
And I would quietly be revealed as “not artistic enough.”
Over a class. With no grades.
Apparently, my nervous system still thinks everything is graded (I think this could be another newsletter on it's own).
My mind’s script was detailed. Emotionally persuasive.
And here’s the humbling part:
I didn’t shift it right away.
I know what to do.
I wrote a whole book about finding the gold within.
And still… me and my story played together for over a week. Honestly, the number of times I talked to my family about it was just wrong.
Rehearsing scenarios.
Imagining discomfort.
Letting my body respond to something that hadn’t even happened.
We can know the tools.
And still get seduced by the narrative.
I went early to find parking (no problem).
I had a different size journal than the one requested (not ideal for someone in a downward spiral).
And then — what do you even wear to an art class? I didn’t want to look too cliché… or too polished.
I hope you’re laughing.
When I walked into the room?
The teacher was warm.
Talented.
Passionate.
Genuinely happy to be there.
He loves what he does.
He even brought jelly beans.
Jelly beans.
Not exactly the energy of a rigid, soul-crushing art tribunal.
None of the storyline in my head matched reality.
None of it was true.
Days of a narrative looping in my mind… dissolved in about ten minutes.
And here’s what stayed with me:
It wasn’t the classroom that needed to change.
It was the story.
My truth nugget…
Most of the limits in our lives are just well-written fiction.
The tension.
The fear.
The “what if I’m not enough.”
Often — fiction.
And the beautiful part?
We are the author.
And sometimes all it takes is walking into the room… and accepting the jelly beans.
love,
mmc
And a big P.S. If you have tried to share my newsletter, or sign up yourself- big apologies as my link was not working.
Please try now! All fixed and ready to hit your inbox.
Thank you Ivy!!!
