We used to quip that she made six paintings
before she brushed her teeth in the morning,
our voices tinged with an edge of dark, sticky envy —
contempt turned inwards towards our own,
frightened, frozen selves, then reflected back out at her.
Because, of course, her prolific output only highlighted
our own lack.
The answer, though, wasn’t to get her to stop,
but to unstick our own stuck.
It took me years. Decades. Centuries.
But I finally found the secret formula:
imperfectionism + effort + time.
[scs_alt]
PS — Pssst! Know someone who might benefit from seeing this today? Pass it on!
