The Monkey I Didn't Ask For

Pausing. Noticing. Receiving.

I paint from inquiry, not a plan. Then … stepping back, gazing, letting whatever wants to come, come. Most days that means color, texture, movement, symbols. This particular day, it meant a monkey.

I felt compelled to work on my Inner Wilderness painting the other day. It's a painting of my inner exotic world where the magician, shaman self, alchemist lives — it speaks to the flow of deep dream energy coming into manifest form.

There's no thinking-type plan, simply inquiries to explore and experience. Painting. Stepping back. Gazing at the canvas and letting whatever wanted to come, come.

So I painted for a while, then stepped back to pause, see and listen.

A monkey showed up.

A monkey? Really? Okay.

I tilted my head. I smiled. That's not usually how this goes — I rarely paint animals, and a monkey has never once shown up in my work before, nor do I have a correlation to them, as far as I'm aware. But it was undeniable, sitting right there on the canvas, so instead of painting over it or pretending I hadn't seen it, I leaned in.

I gave her eyes, darkened her mouth line just a bit, and paused to see what she had to say.

It did make me smile and feel a little mischievous. The initial message was simple. Lightness. Curiosity. A bit of harmless mischief. Yes, that's part of my inner world for sure, but what if I go deeper?

What else is there? I pondered.

Later, curious, I looked up what monkeys represent across traditions. Turns out they're also associated with the ability to see through deception, generate innovation and are quite resourceful. I already knew those were mine — I've leaned on them for years. But having them show up wearing a monkey's face, uninvited, was new. Like something in me wanted those traits named out loud again, in a language I hadn't used before.

There are so many layers in a painting like this. That monkey will likely get painted over before I'm done, covered by the next layer, and the one after that. But her energy doesn't disappear. It carries on underneath, part of the wholeness of the piece even when she's no longer visible on the surface. It is, and always will be, a part of my Inner Wilderness.

In an ideal world, I'd document every layer as I go — enough to make a video someday, showing people everything that goes into a piece like this before it becomes what it becomes. But when I'm actually in it, I never think to pause and shoot. I'm too involved in following the monkey.

What shows up in your life when you stop deciding what's supposed to be there?

If moments like this — the unplanned, the unexpected, the parts of yourself that show up uninvited — resonate with you, I write about them weekly on Substack. Join me there.

Warmly,

Suzanne