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What grounds you when you’re not sure where to begin?

That was the question I didn’t know I was asking when I returned from leading my retreat in France.

I arrived home feeling grateful and inspired — but also full. What I craved most was space.

Wide, quiet, open space. The kind that makes anything feel possible again.

But when I walked into my studio, all I could see was clutter.

So I cleared the floors, pushed a few tables around, and moved my painting cart and table closer to the light. Still… something felt off.

Then a robin built her nest just outside my studio doors.

She sat so still. Guarding. Watching. Squawking.

And suddenly, I knew: I didn’t want to disturb her.

I needed space — and maybe she did too.

So I moved my studio outside.

A little table in the grass. A hammock nearby. The shade of the pines above.

It started as a practical rearranging… but it became something much deeper.

Someone from my retreat group had shared that they’d set up two easels at home — and that small detail stayed with me. So I set up two easels too. Dug them out from under a pile of summer bikes and old wood scraps in the garage. One canvas for play. One for practice. I didn’t know what I was making. But it felt good just to begin.

I put on Walking On Sunshine, brought out my sketchbook, a jar of sepia ink I thought was black, and some water-soluble pencils. Nothing fancy. But in the heat, the pencils crumbled — and I let the brush take over. I dipped and scratched and made marks that turned into feathers. Faces. Movement. One page at a time.

And just like that, I felt something shift.

I was painting again.

Not for the outcome, not for a deadline — just because I was curious. Just because it brought me joy.

This was my artist’s date.

I’ve also been re-reading The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.

Fifteen years ago, that book brought me back to painting.

Now, it feels like it’s bringing me back again — not to the beginning, but to a deeper version of where I’ve already been. One that makes space for joy, doubt, expansion, play.

And in all of this — the moving, the rearranging, the beginning again — I’m reminded that creativity doesn’t have to be perfect. We don’t even need to know where it will lead. All we need to do is show up and begin.

I wonder what has been grounding you lately?

Reading in nature? A walk in the woods? A return to your sketchbook? A glass of wine on the front porch?

Whatever it is, I hope you let it nourish you.

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