Creating in the Now: How Making Art Became My Meditation

There’s a question I’ve started asking every artist I meet: Have you ever gone into a meditative state while creating?

And nearly every single one of them has said yes — no matter the medium: writers, painters, ceramists, musicians.

That answer never surprises me. There’s something undeniable about the way art can quiet the thinking mind and drop us into a deeper, more intuitive space. It's a space where time stretches and softens, and the inner critic finally takes a seat in the corner and lets the creative spirit lead.

For me, not every creative act feels meditative. There are days I sit down to make something and my brain won’t stop buzzing, overanalyzing, adjusting, doubting. I work in a variety of mediums—design, digital illustration, photography and painting. But not all of them consistently bring me into a flow state. Certain mediums just seem to be better suited for it.

One of those mediums, for me, is fluid painting.

If you’ve ever worked with resin, you know you don’t have time to second guess yourself. Once you mix the acrylic and resin together, you’ve got about 45 minutes to an hour before it starts to harden. That’s your window. You pour the paints, move them around the canvas, and the piece evolves in real time.

There’s no undo button. No erasing. No overworking. Just movement. Just presence.

And that’s where the meditation begins.

I didn’t experience this at first. When I started working with resin, it felt clunky. I was still learning the materials, figuring out how to mix, how to pour, how to control (or not control) the outcome. I had to make a lot of decisions in the moment, and I made a lot of mistakes. There wasn’t much space for zen, just learning curves and test runs.

But eventually, with enough practice, something shifted. My hands started to know what to do. My body moved with the materials instead of against them. The decisions were made before the pour began: the colors, the intentions, the composition. And once the timer started, I could let go.

I could just be.

There’s something incredibly powerful about creating in that space. It’s not about the outcome. It’s about the experience of being fully present with what’s unfolding, of surrendering to the process instead of trying to control it.

That, to me, is meditation.

It’s not just sitting still with eyes closed. It’s not a formal practice with breath counts and mantras, though I love those too. It’s this: standing barefoot in my studio, paint splattered about, heart open, time suspended.

Art became my meditation the moment I stopped trying to get it right and started letting it move through me.

And now I’m starting to wonder how many other things in life could become a meditation if we approached them with the same kind of presence.

Maybe this is the invitation. To stop waiting for the perfect conditions to be present. To stop separating creativity from mindfulness. To let whatever you’re doing—painting, cooking, dancing, walking—become a way back to yourself.

I’d love to hear from you. Have you ever dropped into that meditative state while making something? What did it feel like?