by Without hoping for any profound insights, I impulsively signed up for an ink painting class since I was in desperate need of a change of pace. Imagine me, my hands shaking, with the brush poised over a sheet of crisp rice paper. My heart would skip a beat every time the bristles touched the surface. Fortunately, it was only on paper, but I was still prepared for smudges, spills, and perhaps a spectacular wipeout. My anxieties, however, appeared to melt away with the first stroke of the pen. Click our recommended reading about this page!
The beginner’s phase is complete mayhem, let’s be real. Like coffee spilled across a white tablecloth, ink blooms in haphazard puddles as it spreads. “One misstep, and it’s ruined,” I kept telling myself. “Let the mistake guide you,” our instructor, a kind soul with white hair, told us. I was hesitant and skeptical. However, I quickly learned to let the ink guide me instead of trying to force every line. River delta-like splashes transformed into twisted branches, and ragged lumps into delicate blossoms.
The studio was dead silent one night, with just the sound of our brushes making a sound. It was just right—someone sneezed, and ink splattered across a friend’s notepad. It was in that instant of mutual frailty that we burst out laughing. I felt a peace I hadn’t experienced in a long time in the peaceful aftermath. Each spin of the stick for grinding ink reduced the mental clutter; it became a simple ritual.
By week three, I was sleeping better and my breathing was easier. Typos and anxious emails no longer caused me to have existential crises when I returned to work, thanks to the patience I had developed with each deliberate stroke. Coaxing funny trees—leaning trunks, wandering leaves—out of stray splatters was a team effort; even my hyperactive sister helped in.
Taking an ink painting class won’t give you magical powers or a fresh start, I’m afraid. On the other hand, it taught me to welcome the messiness of life with open arms, have faith in the process, and look for the good in the unexpected. Now I have ink-washed forests on my walls, with twisted branches that prove how much a little black ink and a brush can change a piece of paper.