The Art of Holding On Loosely

Oh friends… let’s talk about lobsters. 🦞

Not the fancy white-tablecloth kind. The watercolor kind. The kind that start out looking slightly alarming in pencil and then somehow, by grace and water and a little courage, turn into something wonderfully alive.

I’ve been painting lobsters loosely lately. Really loosely.

And every time I do, I hear that old song by 38 Special — “Hold On Loosely.”
Isn’t that the most perfect advice for midlife?

When I sit down to paint, I try — oh, how I try — to get it right. To control the lines. To define the claws. To capture every tiny ridge and shadow. I want it tight. Crisp. Contained.

But deep in my bones?

I love loose painting.

I love when the water decides to wander.
I love when the red blooms into coral without asking permission.
I love when the pigment edges feather and blur and do something I could never have engineered myself.

The water changes my painting…
and then changes it again…
and then changes it again.

It’s maddening.

It’s magical.

And if I’m being honest, it feels like life right now.

Adult children moving out of state.
Family members walking through illness.
Aging parents.
Friendships shifting.
Dreams evolving.

There is so much that feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

And I find myself gripping.
Trying to hold it tight.
Trying to control outcomes, timelines, emotions.

But watercolor won’t allow that.

And neither will love.

And then I'm reminded that there is One Who Holds It All Together, So I Don't Have To.

Years ago, I met a woman — I wish I could remember her name. She had the kindest gray hair and the kind of eyes that had seen things and chosen softness anyway. She told me something I have never forgotten:

“Love is like butter. The tighter you hold it, the less you have.”

Wise words indeed.

If you squeeze butter, it melts through your fingers.
If you grip your painting, you muddy it.
If you clutch people too tightly, you crush what you’re trying to protect.

Loose painting is not careless painting.
It’s trust-filled painting.

It’s choosing to believe that the water knows something.
That the bleed might be beautiful.
That the unexpected bloom could be the best part of the piece.

Maybe this is our season of holding on loosely.

Loving fiercely — but loosely.
Supporting our grown children — but loosely.
Showing up for aging parents — but loosely.
Letting friendships evolve — but loosely.

Not detached.
Not indifferent.
Just open-handed.

The lobster doesn’t need every leg perfectly defined to feel alive.
Sometimes the suggestion of a claw is enough.
Sometimes the space between brushstrokes tells the real story.

So today, I’m painting my lobsters loose.

I’m letting the water run.
I’m letting the red wander.
I’m allowing the paper to warp and dry and surprise me.

And I’m practicing open hands.

If you’re in the middle of life too — the beautiful, stretching, bittersweet middle — maybe this is your invitation:

Loosen your grip.
Trust the water.
Let love breathe.

Because sometimes the most vibrant paintings…
and the most meaningful lives…
are the ones we don’t overwork.