Finding My Flow

I started flow painting (don't worry—I get to the photography bit soon) when I found an old table on the side of the road that had that ugly "80s" brown glass in it. I thought, "There must be a way to paint this," which led me to "Alice's Looking Glass"—the internet. Long story short, many searches and You Tube videos later, I found myself experimenting with acrylic flow art.

It was mesmerising, therapeutic and helped me be "in the now," or to use the trendy term, "practise mindfulness," which I always had a hard time doing. It seemed the many tabs of my computer-like brain were always open and vying for attention—never truly turned off, pending action. It made it hard to meditate, focus or truly relax. For goodness sake—I'd be at the beach, looking at an amazing sunset, watching my dogs frolic and I'd start thinking about everything I should do or start worrying about things I couldn't change in the moment. I'd get about 30 seconds into being in "a quiet space" in my head when the lists would start to appear. "Gotta remember that—add it to the list of 'to do's", "oh and don't forget to pick up that." The never ending list—the "Tyranny of the Urgent" crowding out the "Important." Why couldn't I switch off? What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I look like those peaceful, zen-like people in magazines, practising yoga or tai chi in the park? Where was my "place of peace?" And why was it so darn elusive???

I remember doing a workshop that talked about "Finding Your Flow." That thing that when you engaged in it would take you to a place of "Flow"; here things happened seamlessly, happily, without stress or anxiety. It was funny to me that I found that place for me in flow painting.

As I watched the paint ooze and drip, trickle and seep, colours and shapes blending into each other in an infinite number of combinations, I was suddenly there... in the flow! Caught up in the moment. The list of "to do's" was finally crowded out by something so magical, so mesmerising, so wonderful to me that I could finally "switch off" and enjoy.

And then I noticed something. I wanted to capture some of these moments—to enjoy them in another way. Rather than moving on with the painting, rushing on to a finished result, I wanted to pause, ponder and reflect. I wanted to see it in another way—from another angle. So I took out my old digital camera. Yes camera—not the phone—because my phone is one of the first iPhones that's a hand-me-down and frankly the pics aren't that good.

Suddenly I saw a new landscape. The landscape of the painting. The landscape of colours and shapes and textures that lay before me, slick and fresh and shiny and vibrant in its "nowness." It's "just been created-ness." It was an opportunity to capture a genesis moment—and I loved it. Zooming in. Zooming out. From this angle and that angle. High, low, eye level. "How would that change the image?" And that was when I discovered the multiplicity of images in the one image before me. One painting yielded so many images. It was a room with many windows—looking out onto endless vistas. It was a diamond with many facts—each surface reflecting a different colour, play of light.

It was a happy discovering. Each painting providing me with so many moments of "serendipity." So many "happy accidents," "chance discoveries." As the lens zoomed in on the wet paint, so my mind focused on the moment. As the shutter clicked open for an infinitesimal moment to capture that flash in time—so my mind was able to focus on that instant. Wholly. I loved everything about it—the colour, the shapes that appeared, the lack of control, the beauty that came out of the chaos.

I had found my flow. I had found my meditation.

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