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I’m in the middle of painting a new collection of owl paintings, and as they slowly come into being, I’ve found myself thinking about a creative sabbatical I took last month.

It was the kind of retreat that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside—no grand itinerary, no big reveal—but one that quietly rearranged something inside me. I came home filled with ideas, yes, but more than that, with a renewed willingness to begin.

Do you ever find it hard to cover up your paintings?

I do. All the time.

There’s a moment—sometimes many moments—when a painting feels almost right. When the marks are tender, the colors feel alive, and something in you whispers, Don’t touch it. Don’t ruin this. And yet, beneath that hesitation, there’s often another truth waiting: this isn’t finished yet.

Every so often, when I do paint over something I love, a beautiful mistake appears. Something unexpected. Something better than what I was trying to protect. Those moments always ask the same quiet question: Can you let go now?

It’s an easy thing to forget when you’re standing in front of a blank canvas—or worse, one that feels full of possibility and risk all at once.

If I’m honest, there are times when I avoid painting altogether, especially when I’m experimenting or stepping into unfamiliar territory. I love the feeling of a finished piece. I love the calm that arrives after. But getting there requires showing up before the outcome is clear—and that part can feel vulnerable.

And yet, every single time I do show up, I remember something important: once I’m inside the process, I love it. Sometimes it just takes a little persuasion to begin.

When I feel stuck at the start, I gently remind myself to keep things simple.

1. I begin with three colors I love.
2. I cover the white space by finger-painting.
3. I pour water on top—and let go.

That’s it. No pressure. No expectations. Just an opening.

On my sabbatical, I rented a small Airbnb by the beach and set up a tiny, temporary studio. I brought six small canvases with me. At first, it didn’t feel like enough. Halfway through the week, I wished I’d packed more.

But those limits turned out to be a gift.

With fewer supplies and fewer canvases, I slowed down. I became more deliberate, more attentive. I began meditating before I painted—something I return to again and again when I want to arrive with presence instead of urgency. That simple pause made it easier to release my attachment to the outcome and allow creativity to move through me rather than feeling like I had to wrestle it into existence.

Each day, my only goal was to complete those six studies. Nothing more. Those small works are now quietly informing the larger paintings unfolding in my home studio—proof that even the most modest beginnings can ripple outward.

I’ve just sent a new collection of owl paintings to Studio E Gallery in Palm Beach, Florida, and I’m putting the finishing touches on a few more that I can’t wait to share with you soon.

Wherever you are in your creative process—at the beginning, the messy middle, or the quiet pause in between—I hope you’ll trust this: you don’t need to see the whole painting yet.

Sometimes, it’s enough to choose three colors you love and begin.

P.S. Lately, I’ve been feeling called back to color in my paintings—just letting myself play with paint, follow layers, and see where it leads. That same spirit is woven into all of my online courses, too. They’re not about getting it “right”—they’re about reconnecting with joy, trusting your creative voice, and finding your own fun. If you’d like to see more of what I teach, you can explore my painting courses and free resources here.

All photos and artwork by Juliette Crane

This essay was originally published on my Substack, Living the Way of the Happy Painter.