There are paintings that arrive quickly.
And then there are paintings that quietly wait for us.
Holding Light was one of those.
She began life as a demonstration painting during one of my workshops at Greenhills Art Centre in Western Australia. The following week, life took an unexpected turn as I headed back into surgery. The painting stayed exactly where I’d left her, resting on the easel in the corner of my studio.
For months, every time I walked through the room, I’d glance across at her and think, I’ll come back to you soon.
But “soon” has a way of stretching when life asks something different of us.
There were appointments to attend, family to care for, workshops to prepare and the quiet work of healing that can’t be hurried. The days filled themselves, as they always do, and the painting continued to wait.
This winter, I finally picked up my brushes again.
As I mixed colours and began laying down those final layers of paint, something unexpected occurred to me.
Perhaps the painting hadn’t been waiting for me at all.
Perhaps we’d both simply been waiting for the right time.
It felt a little like catching up with an old friend.
As each brushstroke found its place, I realised Holding Light couldn’t have been finished any earlier. She needed time, just as I did.
I think we often imagine an artist’s life as one painting flowing neatly into the next.
In reality, creativity moves with the rhythm of ordinary life.
Paintings wait while we heal.
They wait while we care for the people we love.
They wait while washing piles mysteriously multiply, diaries become crowded and mornings begin before we’re quite ready for them.
The work doesn’t disappear.
It simply waits with remarkable patience.
Lately, as I’ve been driving across Perth on crisp winter mornings, the sunrise has become my quiet companion. I’m not naturally a morning person, but winter has one wonderful advantage—it brings dawn to a much more civilised hour.
Soft pinks spill across the sky. Gentle gold light catches the eucalyptus trees before the day properly begins.
Those fleeting moments remind me why I paint.
Not simply to paint flowers or fruit.
But to notice.
To hold onto a little of that quiet beauty before it disappears.
Perhaps that’s what creativity asks of us more than anything else.
Not constant productivity.
Not perfection.
Simply attention.
Because creativity isn’t something that vanishes when life becomes busy. It doesn’t stop belonging to us because we’ve stepped away for a while.
It waits.
Patiently.
Ready for the moment we return.
Perhaps there is something quietly waiting for you too.
A sketchbook.
A garden.
A half-finished project.
A conversation.
Or simply the time to notice the winter light falling across your kitchen table.
If so, I hope you know there’s no rush.
Some beautiful things simply need time.
