Instead I did other things, reimmersing myself back into my beloved flamenco community and spending my creative energy in dance class instead. I was distracting myself and I knew it. I also knew that if I was to ever start painting again, I would have to go somewhere where I could spread out, free myself from distractions, and try to pick up the dropped thread.
A year after moving back to Vancouver, I packed up and moved across Canada, back to my home province of New Brunswick. I bought a house. I had room to set up my easel, and so I did. But still I did not paint.
Truthfully, I was afraid to pick up my brush again. So much time had passed. What if I had forgotten how? What if I had nothing to say? I would go into my studio, full of good intentions, but then do nothing but organize my paints in their drawers and brushes in their jars, sharpen my pencils, sit at my desk and sketch half-heartedly. Two years passed before I would paint again.