I roll out of bed around noon. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours now, lying a sweaty shadow in this bed, though I am still cold, and wish the sun would set once more. 

I sit up and droop my legs over the edge of the bed and stare down at my dirty carpet for longer than needed, as if preparing to bungee-jump or something. 

I gather what’s left of my tattered nerves and head for the shower. I turn the faucet on and stand under the warm water, not feeling much better. I often wake up anxious and sickly, but luckily, I know my medicine. I finish the last minute of my shower on full cold, which makes me breathless, but I feel alive once more. 

I get dressed in my paint-splattered boiler suit and work boots, then grab my speaker and a few coffee-table books before heading to my easel outside. I set up and sit in the sun and listen to music for a while—Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan and Nina Simone and Bjork, among biographic podcasts I’ve heard hundreds of times on subjects like Vincent van Gogh and Anne Frank. I feel a little lighter already and start to appreciate the sun on my face and the doves cooing in the trees around me, I walk over to refill their birdbath with fresh water and do the same for my elderly dog, who is sleeping in the shade under a nearby Jacaranda tree, I can tell he wants to chase his ball, but wisely thinks better of it. The day is hot with a cool breeze, which I haven’t noticed until now—it’s funny how these small happinesses are unappreciated when you’re too busy fighting with your mind. 

I mix my paints to match the colours of the earth around me; orange clay, light-yellow sand, and the white and black ash of the recent burn-offs the local fire brigade have been conducting now that we are heading into bushfire season*. 

I prime the canvas with white house paint and start applying the colours from light shades to dark—letting the brush do all the work for me, and washes all the worry and melancholy from the morning away with every gesture. 

Nobody can see me out here—in the middle of a field in the Northern Rivers, New South Wales. I feel safe, and my mind is finally quiet. This is my meditation; only creation in solitude brings me the closest thing I’ve experienced to peace, and lying in silence with someone you love, and who loves you too. 

I sing, I paint, I drink black coffee with no sugar, and I take intermittent breaks to read the coffee-table books I’ve brought with me on Frida Kahlo and Nick Cave. I write poetry in these breaks to interweave with my abstract painting. I tear journal pages out and lay them around the easel, hoping the right words will come. 

I have always said I’ve never wished for eternal bliss, as there is no light without the dark—we need the lows to feel the highs, even if we must tire to find a way to beat the lows into submission. I only want contentment, and right now, I am content. 

It matters not how the painting turns out in the long run; it’s the medicinal characteristics it possesses that matter the most. However, if I succeed in my work, I will go to sleep facing an easier day to wake up to. 

It is in finding our individual medicines that combat the trials and tribulations of everyday life that I believe soothes our often-shared feelings of insecurity, uncertainty, anxiety, and unfulfillment that humans are unfortunately gifted through our inherited intelligence. I don’t wish to sound defeatist or apathetic, but it is the finding of these little joys that can make life big. I also don’t seek great financial gain or accolades from art or literature; it could make life easier, sure, but I am happy enough that I have found practices that relieve me of what at times can be crippling mental health battles. The sun on my face, the doves cooing in the trees, painting and writing until the sun sets in brilliant oranges and purples behind the valleys on the horizon, the sounds of sweet soothing music, the smells of coffee and incense emanating as I paint and write. 

The man who wakes early in the morning and buries his head under the blankets and pillows into blackness until noon is foreign to me when I’m creating and I’m content. Though the man in the morning, scared to face the day and cannot fathom seeing the world outside, is seen by the man of the afternoon just the same. Though I am lucky, I have found my medicine, and no matter what it is, it is about ‘getting to the desk’. By this I mean one must do something: a cold shower, breathing the fresh air, bathing in the warm sun, or standing in the cold rain. There is always an antidote to one’s individual pain, if not for only relief for a little while. 

We all need purpose, something that gives us value and reason to roll out of bed in the morning. Something to remind us of our self-worth, and the brightness of a world that can often feel shrouded in darkness. 

*Hazard reduction burning is the deliberate, controlled use of fire in the landscape undertaken during low-risk conditions to reduce the availability of the fuel that feeds a bushfire. https://www.csiro.au/en/news/all/articles/2021/october/hazard-reduction-burn 

Thomas Hannah 

Blogger @poemstellium 

Instagram: @brokesellout