My Own Private Homecoming

The familiar smell of linseed oil and turpentine greets me as I push open the door. My studio, unchanged yet somehow different, waits for me like an old friend with whom I've lost touch.

It's been a little since I sat in this space. Illness and recovery have a way of reshaping time—stretching some moments into eternities while condensing others into mere blinks. The journey back to health wasn't linear. Some setbacks tested my patience and my faith in my own body's ability to heal. Days when returning here seemed like a distant dream rather than an inevitable reality.

Yet here I am in my creative sanctuary...again...for the day!

My table-top easel remains where I left it, a half-finished canvas still clamped in place. My "execution" plans were not as large as the "intention" plans of my previous short visits. The colors have dried on my palette, forming a topographical map of my last artistic thoughts before everything changed. 

There's a peculiar weight to returning to "work." Part of me worried this space would feel foreign, that I would have to relearn its contours and rhythms. But muscle memory is a powerful thing. My body remembers where each brush is stored, how the afternoon light hits the north wall, which floorboard creaks under pressure.

The setbacks that punctuated my recovery taught me something about art I hadn't fully understood before: creation isn't just about forward momentum. It's also about pauses, reconsiderations, and sometimes, starting over. 

I've begun the process of sketching out the floor plan of the extended studio and getting excited about the time to be spent there, quiet and serene, creating my alternate reality... The simple act of drawing these lines on paper feels like a declaration of intent, a promise to myself that this time is real, that this return is permanent. In mapping the physical expansion of my workspace, I'm also charting the expanded boundaries of what's possible in my art after this time away.

I begin slowly with the practical tasks: cleaning brushes that have hardened with disuse, organizing hastily abandoned supplies, and opening windows to invite fresh air into this stagnant space. These aren't just preparatory tasks—they're rituals of reclamation.

The canvas on my easel—once a source of frustration as I struggled to realize my vision—now seems like an old puzzle waiting to be solved with new insights.

My hands aren't as steady as they used to be, and my stamina isn't what it used to be—yet. But I've gained something, too: a deeper appreciation for the privilege of creation, a more nuanced understanding of resilience, and a gentler approach to my own limitations.

I squeeze fresh paint onto a clean palette. The vibrant colors—cadmium red, ultramarine blue, titanium white—spark something in me that feels like coming home to myself. I pick up a brush, its weight familiar in my hand, and make the first mark on a new canvas.

It isn't perfect. It isn't meant to be. It's simply a beginning, again.

I've been here for hours, lost in the rhythm of work that doesn't feel like work at all. My body aches, but it's a different kind of pain than what I've grown accustomed to—it's the sweet soreness of purpose rather than the sharp edges of healing!

Tomorrow, I'll return. And the day after that. Some days will be better than others. There will be frustrations and breakthroughs, doubts, and moments of pure creative flow. But today, this homecoming to my studio—this quiet, serene place where I can build my alternate reality—marks more than just a return to art. It's a testament to persistence, to the human capacity for renewal, to the quiet courage it takes to begin again.

The studio door closes behind me as I leave, but not completely. I leave it slightly ajar, an invitation to tomorrow's possibility.

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