I wanted something different, not because I thought I would have a revelation, therefore I registered in an ink painting course www.thetingology.com/reviews. Imagine my hands shaking like leaves, brush hovering over immaculate white paper. Every time ink set down, my heart performed a tiny tap dance. For the painting, not me; I half-expected catastrophe—a smear, a spill, perhaps even a faceplant. But being in front of a canvas—or in this case, rice paper—allows daily concerns to fade. Everything I carried evaporated with every strong, wet stroke.

Although some claim painting is relaxing, let’s not gloss over problems. It first seems to be anarchy. Ink blossom like coffee under a spilled mug in chaotic circles. “If I mess up, I’m done,” I told myself repeatedly. Still, the teacher—an older woman with hair like a cloud—laughing remarked, “Let the mistake lead you.” I gave a roll of eyes. Still, I slid into the ambiguity. Not too long after, I was letting the brush run its own life rather than merely guiding it. I would wriggle lines into branches if they flowed out like river delts. Every slide became into a shortcut to something strangely beautiful.

The class stopped one night except for the gentle whisper of bristles. Someone sneezed, the ink blushed, we all laughed, and then it felt as though the air thinned out, just us and our untidy works. Seeing nothing become something thrills one. Art created room for little rituals like grinding ink and allowing ideas to drift into the background hum. By week three, I discovered I was sleeping deeper and breathing more easily. Often clinging to my shoulders like damp clothing, anxieties let go.

At the office, my style shifted. I did not worry about emails or catastrophize every misspelling. From brushwork, the patience I had developed permeated all spheres of my life. The odd thing is, nobody advised me that a little black ink might help me to slow down, review mistakes. Her high-strung sister called, and I showed her how to paint a tree. We both finished, proud as punch, peering at trunks slanted horizontally and leaves straying off the paper.

A lesson in ink drawing will not grant you existential rebirth or mystical powers. Still, it caught me off guard. You find a fresh approach to deal with things and a means of sorting the jumble within your thoughts. Perhaps it’s the textures; black swoops on white, maybe indicating releasing go when anything veers off course. In any case, right now my walls are ink tree covered. There were some lovely lopsided ones. Every brushstroke serves as evidence: life can veer and seem better than it did years before.