Monday, April 28, 2025
Tonight, I sat down to engage in the Neurographic Art process developed by Pavel Piskarev (2014) — a method where the subconscious meets the conscious through intuitive line work. Neurographic Art is a solution-focused technique, and tonight, it became a mirror for my inner world. I created a piece about my ongoing struggle with being truly present in my teaching. Too often, I get swept away by small nuances, distractions, and daily dramas. It’s hard to rise above it sometimes. Harder still to remember that these momentary irritations are not the whole story.
I started with a simple scribble, avoiding repetition and rounding the corners, as Piskarev suggests. At first, discomfort gnawed at me — I didn’t want to “mess up” the lines. The desire to do it the right way crept in. Some of the tiniest spaces felt impossible to smooth out, so I filled them in instead of obsessing. As I worked, I felt the pull to fill every space. To color in every gap, cover every void. Leaving anything blank felt uncomfortable, like something was missing — in the art, in me. Then the truth hit me: no matter how much I try, some spaces just stay empty. Some cracks don’t get smoothed over. Some struggles can’t be solved by working harder. These blank spaces represent my burnout, my exhaustion, the parts of my focus lost in the small details of the classroom. The things that shouldn’t matter, but somehow seem to.
I realized I’ve been doing the same thing in my life that I was doing on the page — trying to cover up the hard stuff instead of facing it. Tonight, I didn’t fill every space. I let them sit there, open. Unfixed. It felt uncomfortable, but it also felt honest. Not everything can be patched. Not everything needs to be. Some things are just broken, and maybe that's okay. Maybe I’m still okay, even with the cracks.
In the end, I can’t fill every void, but I can learn to live with them. I can’t fix everything, but I can stop pretending it’s all okay. The blank spaces are still there, but maybe they’re reminders that I don’t need to do everything the "right" way — I just need to be. For me, these untouched spaces represent the struggles I am facing in my burnout: my inability to remain fully present, my tendency to get entangled in the small dramas and endless classroom nuances. Just as I wanted to force every gap on the page into fullness, I often find myself trying to force resolution where none is possible — trying to smooth every rough edge of my day, fix every imperfection in myself and my students, chase a completeness that life simply doesn’t offer. Tonight, the blank spaces reminded me: not everything broken needs mending. Not every gap is a failure. Some struggles are meant to be honored, not erased. Some spaces are meant to breathe. So am I.
Nothing is permanent. Mistakes are part of the process. Life moves on whether I cling or release. Tonight, I let go. I felt my new mantra surface alongside an old one: Nothing is permanent. Don’t sweat the small stuff. I breathed it in, letting the curves of my lines carry it deeper into me. The more I worked, the more I saw how often my need to control — to smooth, to perfect — keeps me from experiencing the moment fully. Every tiny bump or missed connection in the art became a quiet teacher: not everything broken needs to be fixed. Some things simply need to be witnessed. Accepted.
Maybe presence isn’t about doing it the "right" way — maybe it’s about giving myself permission to simply be, even when things feel out of control, even when my patience frays. I’m learning that living — really living — means standing inside the mess without needing to tidy it up right away. It means breathing, creating, and allowing. In the end, the art wasn’t about making something beautiful. It was about making space — for the flaws, for the frustration, for the fierce, imperfect love I still have for teaching AND for myself.
Becky: (Sitting quietly, looking at the piece) I started this with a clear goal: get it all done, the right way. I thought if I just filled every space, made every line just so, it would be complete. But something shifted as I worked on you.
Spaces that Breathe: I felt it, too. There’s a tension in the lines, a pull to fill, to make it all fit perfectly. But the empty spaces, the gaps, aren’t mistakes. They’re not something to be completed.
Becky: It’s frustrating. I want everything to be done right. Every task in my classroom, every moment with my students—it should go according to plan. But the more I try to get everything right, the more I feel stuck. Like there’s always something left undone.
Spaces that Breathe: The more you try to control, the tighter you pull, the harder it becomes to let go. These open spaces—these gaps—are not failures. They’re part of the process. They’re there to be noticed, not to be filled.
You: (Sighs) I keep feeling like I need to fix everything. Like the gaps in the classroom need to be filled right away. It’s hard to sit with them, to let them just exist. But you’re right. Maybe I need to stop trying to complete every moment and just let things unfold.
Spaces that Breathe: Exactly. The gaps aren’t something to be rushed past or patched up. They’re part of your story, part of the rhythm. You can’t force everything into place, and that’s okay.
Becky: I’ve been chasing after completing everything the "right" way, but I think that’s why I’m always so drained. It’s never done, and I’m never really present in the process. I’m always thinking about the next thing, about making sure it’s all in order.
Spaces that Breathe: The right way isn’t about filling every space—it’s about allowing room for things to breathe, for things to happen without forcing them. That’s where the real work begins: not in getting everything done, but in being okay with what is left.
Becky: (Smiling softly) I see now. Maybe I’ve been pushing too hard. There’s a difference between wanting to do everything right and being willing to let some things just be. Not every moment needs to be filled, not every detail has to be perfect.
Spaces that Breathe: Right. Sometimes, it’s not about completing the picture but about allowing space for the picture to complete itself. That’s where presence lives.
Becky: I think I’m starting to understand. I don’t need to make everything fit into a neat box. I just need to show up, let the gaps be there, and let the process happen.
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