Growing up, I thought there was a right way to do almost everything.
The bed should be made properly.
The sails should be folded correctly.
The job should be finished without mistakes.
There wasn't much room for "good enough."
My father was an accomplished sailor. He represented Canada at the Olympics and approached everything he did with extraordinary discipline. Looking back, I can see how much dedication it took to reach that level. Excellence doesn't happen by accident.
As a child, though, I mostly experienced the expectations that came with it.
Our family spent many weekends and summers sailing. From the outside, it probably looked idyllic. We visited beautiful places, anchored in quiet bays, and experienced parts of the world many people only dream of seeing.
But life on a sailboat also demanded precision.
There were sails to wash.
Decks to scrub.
Brass to polish.
Everyone had a job to do, and there was usually a correct way to do it.
I was never naturally good at sailing.
My brother loved it. I didn't.
I often felt as though I was trying to keep up with a set of expectations that made perfect sense to everyone else but somehow never quite fit me.
For a long time, I carried that feeling into other parts of my life.
If I couldn't do something well, perhaps I shouldn't do it at all.
If something wasn't perfect, perhaps it wasn't worth sharing.
Perfection has an interesting way of disguising itself as high standards.
Sometimes it's simply fear.
Fear of making mistakes.
Fear of disappointing people.
Fear of being judged.
When I began painting seriously, I discovered something unexpected.
Abstract painting doesn't reward perfection.
In fact, it often asks for exactly the opposite.
A painting doesn't arrive fully formed. It evolves. It changes direction. Colours that seemed wrong at first suddenly become essential. Marks I once would have painted over often become the most interesting parts of the finished piece.
I've learned to stop fighting those moments.
The painting usually knows something I don't.
People occasionally ask whether I know exactly what a painting will look like before I begin.
The answer is no.
I might have a starting point.
A colour.
A feeling.
A memory.
But if I tried to control every brushstroke from the beginning, I would lose the very thing that makes abstract painting exciting.
I've come to believe that creativity asks us to trust uncertainty.
That's harder than it sounds.
Especially if you've spent years believing that mistakes should be avoided.
One of my favourite moments in the studio is when a painting surprises me.
Not because I've mastered it.
Because I've stopped trying to.
That feels very different from how I approached life when I was younger.
Age has softened something in me.
I've become less interested in proving myself and more interested in discovering something new.
Ironically, that's when my work became stronger.
Perhaps that's true beyond painting as well.
Maybe a meaningful life isn't built by getting everything right.
Maybe it's built by remaining curious enough to keep going when things don't unfold exactly as planned.
The older I get, the more I appreciate that perfection isn't the goal.
Growth is.
And unlike perfection, growth never asks us to have all the answers before we begin.