January 2026: “Yawn-uary”

I have been more of a walking yawn than a person.

As if to start the year out with a reminder to scratch my perfectionism, a scratch “appeared” on this painting, and also a hair made it into the photo. I’ll take them as reminders to embrace my flaws. 

This is a huge yawn with a cavernous mouth. From the arm, a swoosh of a snake emits a speech bubble with those three “in progress“ dots.

I want to reach out, but before I text, I think, but thoughts don’t communicate, no matter how much I think them. So, instead of connecting the dots, I disconnect in overthinking. After accidentally locking myself out of my studio again, one of the artists who helped me back in said they often reply to texts in their heads and then forget they didn’t actually do it.

The little ellipsis is essential. It’s the part of me that might say something heartfelt, write that life-changing application, articulate my emotions while also feeling them, or explain why my art or music deserves a place in the world. Instead, I’ve been learning that words can be another form of numbness, of numbing. I now know that words are my addiction, and even now, I drown myself in them anyway: endless audiobooks, and this month, my streak of 450 days of journaling 220,000 words. So much language, and yet it chokes me instead of helping me express myself.

Although I’ve been a walking yawn, some of my yawns have been pauses. A yawn is also a reset: a brief, uncontrollable opening, a breath that interrupts the words. 

Late in the month, I noticed I’ve been painting with one foot out of the studio, disappearing into audiobooks so I don’t have to feel how scared I am of loving my own work.

If I want the paintings to be alive, I have to be fully here for them. I journaled that I need to give my whole self to that from which I wish to receive wholeness. 

So this yawn isn’t just exhaustion. It’s a doorway, a big involuntary opening, the moment before I decide whether to check out again or stay with what’s present.

January’s augury says: I’m tired, yes. And also, I’m empowered to pause, to stop half-leaving my own life, and to brave the yawning “now.”