Unpracticed

It had been a few years since I last picked up a paintbrush. I didn’t really think about it, to be honest. Life sort of took over, and the paints sat gathering dust, shoved in a corner of my closet like forgotten friends. But one afternoon this past week, with no real reason, I decided to give it a go. Just like that—no grand plan, no inspiration. I just wanted to paint.

I pulled out the old canvas, and the sight of it made me feel both excited and… a little bit nervous. I dug through the dusty box of acrylic paints, their lids all cracked and dried. Some were even solid, like little chunks of colour left in the past, stubbornly refusing to cooperate.

But I pressed on. I found a set of brushes, and they were stiff—so stiff, like they had retired long ago. I dipped one into the paint, ready to create something magical.

That’s when I realized I had forgotten how to paint.

My hand was shaky, and the brush strokes came out all wobbly. I could barely make a straight line. The paint dried so fast that I had to hurry to blend it before it turned into a crusty mess. It was like trying to paint with the speed of a race car but the skill of a toddler.

Still, I kept going. I wanted to make something. Maybe not great, but something. So, I started with the forest. Oh, the forest. I tried to paint trees. Tall, elegant trees standing proud in the mist. But they looked more like awkward, crooked sticks. Not a single one was straight, and I wasn’t sure if they were trees or some weird form of abstract art. Maybe it was the ugly globs that were supposed to be branches. Maybe it was me. Or maybe I just wasn’t meant to paint trees anymore.

And then there was the fog. I thought, “Fog is easy, right? It’s just soft, wispy layers of colour.” But apparently, I had forgotten how to make anything soft. I slapped the brush on the canvas, trying to create some gentle haze, but it came out more like a streaky storm cloud that hadn’t been invited to the party.

But here’s the thing: despite everything being a little bit of a disaster, I kept painting. Every mistake made me want to keep going, not to fix it but to see if I could somehow work with it. It was almost like a conversation with myself, clumsy brushstroke by clumsy brushstroke. The canvas didn’t care that I was out of practice and didn’t judge me for my shaky hand or the fact that the paint was drying too quickly. It just let me keep going.

By the end of it, the fog didn’t look like anything I had imagined, but it was still there, and I had made it. The trees didn’t look like anything I thought I could paint, but they were standing—kind of like me, still trying despite not knowing what I was doing.

I sat back and stared at the mess of colours. It wasn’t a masterpiece. It wasn’t anything that would ever hang in a gallery. But it was mine. I had found my way back to it, even if I had to stumble a little first.

And that, I think, was the point. That sometimes, you have to pick up the paintbrush again. Even when you’ve forgotten how to use it. Even when the paint dries too fast, your hands shake, and the trees look like they’re in the middle of a lousy dance routine. Because sometimes, you just keep going. You keep painting. Even if it’s a little messy.