Why Turning Myself Upside Down Made Me Paint Better
This morning wasn’t about discipline or routine. I didn’t set out to tick a box or follow a plan. I just wanted to move.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt that kind of simple pull, not to achieve anything, just to play. The light was good, the air felt still, and there was enough space around me to get curious. That was reason enough.
I unrolled the mat. No structure, no warm-up checklist, just me seeing what my body felt like doing.
It started the usual way: a few stretches, gentle breathwork, nothing fancy. I was relaxed but alert, which is rare for me in the mornings. Then the idea landed, handstands.
That familiar mix of comfort and fear.
The last time I felt a real snap of fear in my body was a year ago, when my calf ruptured. It happened during a handstand transition. That’s how fast things change, one move and suddenly your leg’s not yours for months. It’s been over a year now, and the fear is smaller, but it’s still there. It doesn’t stop me, but I know it’s waiting.
That’s probably why inversions still matter to me. They’re not just play, they’re proof.
So I started slow. Palms pressed down, shoulders engaged, light through the fingertips. I love that first lean forward, the moment your centre of gravity slides toward trust.
My balance came easily today. Arms steady, breath calm. Nothing shaky or forced. Just quiet strength.
Then the lift, that float when your feet leave the floor and the world tilts. Everything slows down. The kind of stillness that isn’t silence, but focus.
For a few breaths, I just stayed there. It felt solid, but alive. No adrenaline, no tension, just awareness.
Coming down, though, still takes mental negotiation. My right leg hesitates every time. It’s instinct, a small reminder of what happened before. I lower the left first, always, because it feels safer. Controlled, careful, almost ceremonial.
It’s not fear exactly, it’s respect. My body remembers.
Once I came down, I stayed on the floor for a bit. Just breathing. There’s something funny about how grounding it feels to return to the ground after being away from it. Everything feels louder: the heartbeat, the breath, the floor itself.
And then, because I wasn’t ready to stop, I kept moving.
Crow. Side crow. Shoulder taps. Not a sequence, just curiosity in motion.
Crow’s always satisfying. Compact, balanced, strong without shouting about it. Side crow’s trickier but worth it. It asks for attention in all the right ways. You can’t think your way into it; you have to feel the mechanics, twist, trust the tension.
Each time I moved through, I laughed a little. Not because anything was wrong, but because the whole thing was fun. That kind of quiet, private fun that doesn’t need an audience.
There’s a rhythm that comes from stringing poses together with no script. It’s not about perfection; it’s about conversation, body to body, breath to breath.
And for once, I didn’t overdo it. I stopped while it still felt light.
Afterwards, I just sat. The morning felt different, calmer but more alive. There’s this specific aftertaste from good movement, a sort of humming stillness that hangs around you like a frequency.
Normally, I’d shower or stretch it out. Today I didn’t want to lose it.
So I went to paint.
I didn’t even think about it, I just wandered into the studio. I still had that movement rhythm running through me, not adrenaline, not flow, just presence.
The canvas was there, already half-covered from last week, and I started where I’d left off.
No battle. No resistance. Just joy.
That’s what surprised me, how light it all felt. Usually, when I paint, my mind quiets down completely. Today, it didn’t switch off. It didn’t need to. It just came along for the ride.
I wasn’t “in a zone.” I wasn’t seeking one either. I was just happy. The colours made sense, my hands moved easily, and I felt completely unbothered about what the outcome would be.
It wasn’t about healing or expression or any deep reason. It was just fun.
Simple, physical, freeing fun.
The longer I painted, the more I realised how much my morning had set the tone for it. The balance, the movement, the control mixed with looseness, it had all carried through. The brushstrokes felt like extensions of those poses, with the same quiet strength and the same lack of effort.
It didn’t feel like work. It felt like a continuation, the same language, just in colour instead of motion.
And it showed. The piece that emerged from it looked joyful. Full of life.
People often assume creativity comes from emotion, pain, introspection, the deep stuff. Sometimes, sure. But sometimes it just comes from feeling good.
That’s what today reminded me of. Not everything needs unpacking. Not everything needs meaning. Some days are just allowed to feel beautiful.
When I finally stepped back, the day had this lightness to it, the kind you can’t fake. I didn’t want to analyse it or write about it or turn it into a metaphor. I just wanted to keep that feeling a bit longer.
Everything about the morning had been quietly balanced. Strength without strain. Focus without control. Joy without drama.
That’s rare.
It’s easy to talk about healing, but this was just living.
I cleaned up the brushes, stretched my calf once more, and stood there thinking, that was a good day. No reason needed.
I didn’t paint better because I’d been upside down. I painted better because I’d remembered what it feels like to enjoy myself without making it mean anything.
Maybe that’s what creativity really is, not the need to express, but the freedom to play.
If you ever need to reset, not emotionally, not spiritually, just physically, try going upside down for a while. It changes the day’s chemistry.
You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to stay long. Just tip the world over and see what happens.
For me, it brought movement, stillness, and colour back into the same conversation. The rest followed naturally.
If you’ve ever wanted to experience that kind of grounded joy, the way art, breath, and motion overlap, you’ll find more of it in Stillness Is a Weapon, and in the Movement section of my site.
But honestly? You don’t need anything. Just a floor, some music, and enough curiosity to turn the day upside down.