Letters from the Studio #2: Permission to stop

On Halloween morning I went to the shop for a few last little things for the evening.

The Halloween shelves were already empty. In their place: Christmas lights, gift boxes, tinsel. The holiday hadn't even happened yet, and the world had already moved on to the next one.

I stood there for a moment and thought: this is exactly how life feels lately. Faster, faster. More to do, more to buy, more to keep, more to feel. We run so hard toward living that we sometimes forget to actually live.

The hour I almost skipped

This week I went to a yoga class. Honestly, I nearly didn't go. There was the Christmas challenge to prepare, emails to answer, a hundred small things waiting.

But for one hour there was no phone and no list. Just breathing, and slow movement, and a teacher's quiet voice. Somewhere in the middle I noticed how much tension I had been carrying in my shoulders without even knowing it. And slowly, it let go.

I walked out lighter. Not because anything on my list had changed, but because I had finally stopped. And I realized how long it had been since I had really stopped.

An evening nobody rushed

That same weekend my family held a Halloween celebration. Our daughter Maria plays the drums, and her band came to play for everyone. I loved the idea: giving young musicians a real stage and real applause, and giving everyone else an evening of fun.

Our doorstep on Halloween evening.

Our house on Halloween evening, full of music and neighbours.

The children were delighted, of course: the costumes, the pumpkins, the sweets. But what touched me most was the grown-ups. People came for the sweets, and then they stayed. They stopped to listen to the music. They talked. Neighbours who had passed each other for years finally learned each other's names.

Nobody was in a hurry. Nobody bought anything. And everyone went home a little fuller than they came.

Alex and me, at the end of a happy evening.

I keep thinking about that. The evening wasn't about the sweets at all. It was about people giving themselves permission to stop and simply feel something together.

Is it selfish to take time for yourself?

So many of you have told me some version of this: "I'd love to paint, but it feels selfish. There's always something more important."

I understand that feeling deeply. Many of us grew up believing that rest has to be earned, and that time spent on ourselves is time taken from someone else.

But here is what I've learned, and what research keeps showing: the time you give yourself doesn't take from your life. It gives back to it.

• Researchers at San Francisco State University studied people with creative hobbies, from office workers to US Air Force captains. Those who spent time on creative activities outside work were better at creative problem-solving at work, and more likely to help their colleagues.
• A large study in Nature Medicine followed more than 93,000 adults over 65 in 16 countries. People with a hobby had fewer symptoms of depression and reported more happiness, better health and greater life satisfaction.

A hobby is not a luxury you allow yourself once everything else is done. It's part of what makes you able to do everything else, and to do it with more patience and more warmth.

Three kinds of time that fill you up

When I look at what really refilled me this week, it falls into three simple kinds of time:

• Time for your body. A yoga class, a walk, a stretch on the floor before bed. Movement that lets the tension out.
• Time for your mind. A book, a few pages before sleep, a conversation that isn't about tasks.
• Time for your hands and heart. Painting, drawing, anything where you make something slowly and lose track of the clock.

You don't need all three every day. But if a whole week passes without any of them, your body usually tells you, often in your shoulders.

A small permission for this week

Before you close this letter, I'd love to leave you with something small to try this week. There's no right result here, just a little time that belongs only to you.

1. Write the permission. On a small piece of paper, write: This time is mine. Put it next to your paper and paints.
2. Choose one moment from your week. Something small you'd like to remember: a pumpkin on a doorstep, a candle, a leaf from your walk, a cup of tea.
3. Paint it slowly. Not to make it perfect, but to stay with it a little longer. Let the colors take their time.
4. Notice how you feel afterwards. Not how the painting looks. How you feel.

If your mind says "you should be doing something else", smile at it, and keep painting.

A place to play with color

If you'd like a special place for this kind of time, my Watercolor Mixing Notebook was made for it. It's designed for sketches and for playing with color: mixing, testing, seeing what happens when two colors meet, and slowly growing small projects of your own. Nothing in it has to be finished or perfect. It also makes a wonderful gift for someone you love who could use a little more time for herself.

But please remember: a piece of paper, a little water, and twenty minutes you give yourself are already enough.

The world will keep saying faster. The shops will always be one holiday ahead.

You don't have to be.

With warmth from the studio,
Kristine

P.S. What is one thing you do just for yourself, something that fills you up again? I'd love to hear. Just reply to Sunday's letter.

Keep reading

• Letters from the Studio #1: Why a brush might be the calmest part of your day
• Art should feel like a gift, not a burden
• How to Stay Motivated in Art: 5 Gentle Tips