Painting practice

Painting and I don't get along. I'm messy, impatient, and have no depth perception whatsoever. So when it comes time to paint a room in our house, the task usually falls onto my wife's shoulders. This past summer, we had our screened-in porch converted to a three-season room, and like all new constructions, it needed to be painted.



My wife and I--public school teachers--had off from school on Thursday and Friday for Rosh Hashanah. Our plan was to paint on Friday while the kids were at school and then relax the rest of the day.


Oh, silly mortals.


What began as a three-hour priject turned into six, and then eight, and then eventually spilled over into the double digits.


But here's the thing: I didn't mind painting at all. Normally I would be huffing and puffing, cursing under my breath the entire time; but not on Friday. Or Saturday, for that matter. I was, to use sports terms, in the zone.


Hours passed and I didn't even notice. I was so immersed in the activity of painting that I didn't think of any else. In fact, I didn't think of anything. Ordinarily, while I'm doing something fairly rote like mowing the lawn, I will inevitably drift off into thought--planning, narrating, daydreaming, etc. But not this time.


I was so intent on painting, paying close attention to every detail and movement of the brush, that I completely lost myself in the activity. It probably had to do with the fact that I'm an unskilled painter, so I had to concentrate the entire time. But either way, it was pretty amazing. I suppose this is how athletes feel on the field or on the court. The dropping off of body and mind.


Please don't tell my wife, though; I don't want to make a habit out of painting.


Now if I can only do that while grading essays, I'll be set!

Photo borrowed from Creative Commons flickr user: basykes.