Chapter 17: Happy Accidents

After a tough day, I liked to just order a pizza, turn off my phone, and watch Bob Ross paint. Watching paint dry is a lot more fun than people say it is. At least, it’s relaxing and, when you’re wound up tight, relaxing is as good as fun.

Today, I really needed that.

I ordered a tub of ice-cream with my pizza, which may as well have been gold for the cost of it. Shut off the lights, too, letting a table lamp light the room in soft, warm hues, rather than the bright blue of the LED. Lowered the brightness on my monitor. Wrapped myself in a blanket, snuggling as tight as I could.

Then, I left the pizza tracker open on my phone and started watching Bob Ross. Half-way through a painting already, his canvas had a beautiful blend of colours. He always said anyone could paint, but I couldn’t help but doubt him when he took such care. The casual strokes belied the time he’d put in. No hesitation in his movements. Anyone could paint, most could paint with him, but few could paint like him.

The more I thought about it, the more I came to think that what I admired most about him was his confidence. He never paused. He addressed his mistakes, fixing them or incorporating them into the picture. “We call those happy accidents, and they can be your best friend.”

I wished I could be like that. All my life, it seemed, fell prey to hesitation. I couldn’t express myself well, so people misunderstood me, so I felt even worse about myself, less willing to try again.

Bob Ross didn’t have that problem. He took just a smidgen of paint, added two curves to the canvas and, without a doubt, that was a bird. “She looks a little lonely; we oughta give her a friend,” he said.

I heard the words, but only realised them when my phone vibrated. So, I had those words on my mind when I saw the text message someone had sent me. “Hey, are you okay? You looked a bit upset today.”

At first, I wanted to ignore it. But, Bob Ross wouldn’t ignore a text from someone who cared about him, even if it was probably just them being polite. Rather belatedly, I then noticed who it had come from.

“Sarah,” I whispered to myself, so many emotions being whipped up, swirling.

As reluctantly as I could while still actually doing it, I typed a reply: “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just tired.”

But, I didn’t send it. Bob Ross talked about how he felt. I didn’t think less of him when he started a painting by saying something like, “I’m feeling a little blue today, so I thought we’d paint something a little darker than usual.” I didn’t think the painting came out any less beautiful, either.

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he kept painting in front of me and he always would. Whatever troubles he had, he painted. His wife’s illness, his own feelings—he still painted. And, he talked freely about them, because, to him, he was talking to his friends.

I deleted my reply, staring at a blank message. So many different words could have fitted in that gap. A blank canvas.

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In the video, he tapped a palette knife loudly on his palette, my attention pulled back to him. “This is your bravery test. You worked so hard and then a crazy-haired guy tells you to throw in a big ol’ tree on top of it all.”

“I didn’t work hard at all,” I quietly said.

He didn’t reply, and I would’ve been worried if he did, but his words lingered. My bravery test. He never hesitated when it came to a blank canvas, willing to make that first stroke. I couldn’t say for certain, but I thought I remembered him saying something like: “The secret is to do one stroke after another. If you keep that up, you’ll finish in no time.” If he hadn’t, it was the sort of thing I could easily imagine him saying.

For the first stroke, my first word, I relied on what bravery normally meant to him.

“I,” I typed.

That was a good start. Bob Ross usually made a tree by starting with that brave trunk, a dark colour cutting through the warm scene he’d already painted. Start with the trunk and work from there.

“That’s the nice thing about painting. You can do what you want to, so let’s do something fun and add some little rocks here.”

I wished I could paint what I wanted, wished I could have fun like he did. It seemed like an eternity since I last did. Years, at least. Years, since my brush moved like his, free and happy.

“I want to paint you,” I typed, not really paying attention until I went to send it, and managed to stop myself. There were limits to happy accidents, I thought. But, if it was a mistake, then I just needed to fix it up a bit. Add some leaves, pay attention to the light, give the bark some texture. Be brave. “I wanted to ask you to model for me.”

My thumb hovered over the send button until Bob Ross said, “And I’d like to wish you happy painting, and God bless, my friend.”

I sent the text. No mistakes, only happy accidents. If I could paint her, then maybe she would understand what I wanted to say. Even if she didn’t, at least I tried.

The next of his painting sessions had come on, and Bob Ross said, “Anything that you’re willing to practice, you can do.”

I hoped that was true.

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