Sharing my Truth and the Story of Sick Brush

I have been reflecting on how much I share, and realising that I have so much to say but I never share it. Mainly for fear of being taken the wrong way, fear of being seen, vulnerable, allowing myself to be big, and also allowing myself to be small. But I also see that the people who share the most deeply in my field have been the ones who have sparked the most growth within me - and I have no doubt they experience the most growth themselves through it.

Im realising that its not the people reading my feed that I need to be worried about, its ME. Im not doing it for THEM, thats a grand excuse and I call bullshit. I will do it for ME. For my growth. What others get out of it is none of my business, to use the words of Rebecca Campbell.

I love watching the people who share so deeply and transparently on my feed, I admire their courage and I always give myself the excuses why I can’t share my truth yet because XYZ.

This is keeping me small and I don’t fucking buy it!! Today I am going into it.

I’m having mega resistance to post this and to the big level ups that are facing me this summer, in the form of exhibiting at the two biggest events for visionary art and culture in Australia - Rainbow Serpent and Earth Frequency.

I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted and now I am terrified. 

I’m doing it, but that doesn’t stop me feeling fear. 

 

I am not asking for advice

I am not asking for help 

 

I am NAMING this fear to release it and remove its power, and being witnessed in that. 

And for some reason sharing this with another story makes it less scary. 

I want to share the story of Sick Brush. 

I did this painting at Amanda Sage’s retreat a bit over a month ago but I didn’t share its story because I wasn’t ready to - I still felt like I needed to hide behind an “aloof artist” facade which is so not me. I want REALNESS.

Part of the method that we were taught included making marks on the page and trusting that whatever came out was part of it, and to go with it and see where it went. In equal parts we were taught not to be attached to whatever we painted, and allow it to have its own life and tell us what it wants, not to push it into what we want it to be. 

A scroll appeared in my painting through a doorway, I decided it was my soul contract, and a great lightning bolt of energy was coming down towards it and cracking the page. It had asemic writing all over it, who knows what it said. Later it turned into a sort of page of placenta, with the writing and the lightning bolt merged into one organism with veins and bumps. On the other side of the canvas a brush was appearing, to sign the soul contract, I decided. 

“Don’t sign it!” said Rady. 

I could not paint this brush to save my life. 

I told Christopher “I have a sick paintbrush can you help me with it?” 

As he was painting on it “We’re gonna make sick brush cool, we’re gonna make sick brush cool” and after a while "I don’t think its a brush. I think its a demon.  Sometimes you just have to paint it how it wants to be painted”. Off he went and I kept painting the brush. No, its a paintbrush, its a nice silver paintbrush with a fluffy blue feather and its going to sign my lovely soul contract! Woohoo! Hours passed and I still couldn’t paint it, I was making excuses and going elsewhere, and it did not want to be painted. It wasn’t having a bar of my fluffy thoughts. 

 

Ok its a demon. What do you want, Sick Brush? 

All of a sudden it turned red with spikes in its beautifully disguised feather, the bristles curled and snarled and its nose turned up. Its evil little eye of truth staring at me, all the while I’m realising why it was there.

We had come to the very end of the painting time, 4 “last songs” later it was REALLY the last song. Sick Brush had made little track marks over towards what had turned out to be my “umbilical cord” to source. And he was going to snip it. It ended up as a war between me and Sick Brush, to listen to what he had to say while repairing my connection. The last strokes on the canvas were white energy whooshing into my soul-contract-placenta-thing, I got up and all of a sudden I fell back. Woah. I tried to sit back on my chair and I tripped and fell back again. Sick Brush had kicked me off my painting. He was abruptly finished with me, I had repaired my connection to source and the painting was done.

 

Sick Brush made me realise that I have been doing this for all the wrong reasons. I have been painting to receive love rather than doing it because I love it. Sick Brush made me question my morals and my why’s. 

I am in no way against money but it made me realise that I was painting for the idea of fame, for money and with an energy of TAKE. Gross. No wonder he was snarly. Sick brush took EVERYTHING from me that day, I was a quivering mess by the end of it, my ego destroyed, no help that I had been painting since the morning before. But I am infinitely grateful for that little bastard because he has grounded me more than anything in my life. 

 

The start of this year I have been doing the obligatory new year ritual of goal pondering, wondering where my year will go and I am realising that this year is for solid foundations. To take a side step to get myself really financially stable and build the foundation with care. I need to stop pushing, stop trying to make things happen and just allow it to unfold, to trust that whatever I am meant to do will happen, and wherever I am meant to go will also happen, if I keep courageously going forward into whatever I am guided to do. 

 

I.e. 

THIS.