The strength at our core

Years ago, I took a trip to the Iris Country Gardens with my good friend and fellow painter, Meg, to set up our easels and paint on a beautiful June day.

Before leaving the farm that afternoon, we had the chance to speak with the owners, the Martin sisters, two lovely souls. I gifted them the painting I’d done that day, and in return, they sent me home with a beautiful peony plant.

I’ve visited the Iris Country Gardens a few times since that initial journey (and go there in my mind on dreary winter days), and the three additional peony plants I’ve purchased since that original gift have filled out my collection in my own garden beds.

Fast forward to this week, and my peonies are in full bloom. I’ve missed this brief but incredible event the last few years due to travel, but with the 2025 Plein Air Convention and Expo (PACE) and a visit to see my mom in sister in Sarasota behind me, I can bask in the sweetness of being home to witness these beauties open themselves up to the late spring sun.

Being in the presence of the peonies isn’t just an infusion of scent and color. They’re brilliant and magnificent, yes, but when I look deeply at these flowers, I also see a symbol of strength, and of resilience.

This is a heavy headed flower sitting on a delicate stem. A stem that’s so fine, but supports so much.

I wonder: How can a stem this small create such beauty and flourish so dramatically? How does it have the strength to hold this weight; to grow and bloom each year through snowstorms, wind, hail, and whatever other elements Mother Nature and all her power throws its way?

And as I wonder, I realize that this stem is doing what we all are: Drawing on the strength in our stem; our core, to keep going and to keep growing.

The peony is expressing itself beautifully, just as we can… through our art, through our kindness, and through the way we show up for ourselves and those around us.

I don’t always feel strong. I sometimes feel I’m drowning in the helplessness I feel when it comes to those who are suffering. I often wonder how we’re meant to keep going when the world we’re living in is being dragged down by ignorance, hate, and greed.

Then I see these peonies and I know: That ignorance, hate, and greed? That’s our snow, our wind, and our hail. 

And it’s in the hard moments that we have to draw on the strength in our core–like the peony does its stem–to keep bringing light when things feel dark; to choose kindness when things feel sad; to be present when it’s easy to be distracted.

This morning, I woke up briefly at 2:22 and 4:44. Each time I looked at the clock, I knew it was the angels telling me it’s going to be okay. As I carried my easel outside to paint my peonies later on in the morning, I knew it was Mother Nature telling me to be strong. 

And if you need to hear it, let this be your sign that you will be okay, that you are strong, and that you are free to be brilliant. 

The most beautiful acts of rebellion

I have a memory of when I was a little girl, 5 years old, cozied up next to my great-grandmother in her home. It was 1965. Her basket of knitting supplies was out, and she was giving me a lesson. In the nearby kitchen, chicken and baking powder biscuits were in the oven, the savory smell surrounding us.

My great-grandmother was always working on something: Hand stitching doilies, knitting socks, sewing clothing. Like painting for me, working with textiles was her way of creating. It was therapeutic, bringing calm to herself and beauty to her home, and it was one of the many ways she showed us what joy and care looked and felt like.

I still have a drawer full of her intricate doilies, and each time I pull one out, I’m brought back to those moments with her, when little Cindy received the best gift of all: Her time and attention.

At the same time that my 5-year old self was soaking up my great grandmother’s affection while learning as much as I could about her skill, the US was escalating its military involvement in the Vietnam War.

As a kid, I was mildly aware of what was going on, but another gift my great grandmother gave me was protection from fear.

As we sat and stitched, we were taking a stand, unbeknownst to me at the time. We were continuing to create. We were continuing to spread joy. We were continuing to find calm.

When I think about the world we’re living in today, one rife with war, with hate, and with attacks against the very rights women and minorities have fought for for centuries, I worry most about our children.

As I now sit with my own grandchildren, seeing the spark in their eyes when they hold a paintbrush and create with me, the smell of cookies or banana bread baking in the background, I wonder how I can best protect them.

And it brings me back to my own great grandmother. I can live each day with gratitude and kindness. I can continue to create, and teach my grandkids and their friends the rebellious joy that comes from that.

We can’t know what’s coming next. We only have this moment, today.

I am full of worry, of fear. As I’m sure my great grandmother was. And so, I will continue in her way: I will trust that nurturing and supporting the children in my life will help them build the resilience they need to get through anything negative that comes their way.

And in doing so, I inevitably learn from them. I learn that continuing to put my energy into creative, positive things, without letting the fear and lack creep into the cracks, is how I will continue to see love and hope and beauty in my surroundings and the people around me.

As I’ve shared before, “If there is art, there is hope.”

Keep creating, friends. Your art, your voice, and your joy, are the most beautiful acts of rebellion, and a truly generous way to remain hopeful.

Our children and grandchildren deserve a world full of love, of beauty, and of art. It’s up to us to give that to them.

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Speaking of protecting our children: The Child Advocacy Center of the Finger Lakes, an organization near and dear to my heart, is hosting its annual “Shine Bright for Children Gala” on Friday, June 6, 2025. I’ve donated a painting for the silent auction, but there are many other ways to get involved. Visit their site to learn more 💛

Courage is contagious

As I sit here in my brightly lit studio on a snowy April day with a hot coffee, pen flowing across my journal page, my mind is elsewhere.

Mere weeks ago, I was sitting on a bench on the coast of Dubrovnik, sheltered from the rain as I painted the harbor jutting into the Adriatic Sea. The water shone aqua; the rooftops, coral. In the moment, I felt like I was living in a dream. Inspired, alive, and bursting with energy from deep inside.

Before setting up to paint on that bench, I had climbed the stone wall surrounding Old Town,  marveling at the ancient stonework lit by the sea and the sky before coming across the preserved studio and gallery of Croatian artist Duro Pulitika.

His studio, constructed within the wall, was left exactly as it had been the day he last used it. 

Being able to stand in it, amongst his tools, his paints, and his vibrant artwork, I felt an exhilaration sweep through me. I handed my phone to my friend to record myself in that moment, overcome with the resolute sense that I was in exactly the right place, seeing my dream come to life.

It seems every time I travel—every time I step outside of my day-to-day—I find the presence; the curiosity; the ability to tap into a higher frequency where I can burst out of the limiting beliefs that hold me back.

I find myself more grounded, able to breathe life through me, able to feel the art living in my bones. I’m overcome with inspiration, with the feeling that I have everything I need, and, most importantly, with courage to keep doing the next right thing.

I’ve written about this several times before, because I’ve been blessed to experience so many unique travels.

And, coming home to the news as it continues to unfold daily in our own country right now, I know how important it is to stay in that higher frequency.

So I’m reminding myself, today and every day, to not get discouraged. To stand up for what I believe in. To create, paint, draw. To walk in nature. To gather with friends and loved ones. To fill my pitcher with the things that fortify me; to be present.

Magic, miracles, and good things happen every single second, and when we stop to witness and honor those godwinks, we can experience the power they have to heal, and carry that with us.

And we must. Courage is contagious, and it’s my hope that you can fill your own pitcher, and let it flow over to others around you.

Today, I send you the salty air of the Adriatic sea, the light of the burning spring sun, and the warm embrace of the universe. Let it surround you, and when in doubt, let the courage that lives in your bones, your heart, and your spirit guide you to do the next right thing.

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P.S. This incredible opportunity to travel to Dubrovnik was presented to me through a design project I’ve been partnering on with Ontario County Tourism and RIT (my alma mater), called the Finger Lakes Virtual Museum. I’ll be sharing about it—and its mission to bring local history to life—in the near future!

And, though it wasn’t the purpose of the trip, I knew I would feel the itch every day to paint. Since I was only carrying luggage on, I packed light, leaving my normal oil pants behind. Instead, I brought—and was absolutely delighted with!—this 7-color pan of Caran d’Ache dry gouache. 🎨

Keep your vibration high

Like many things in life, the books that have resonated most with me have come at the time when I’ve needed them; when my heart has called for them and my mind has been open to them.

Most recently, that book is Ninth Street Women, a biography of five women artists who, from 1929-1959, each contributed to what turned out to be an artistic revolution: the development of abstract expressionism.

As I mark my way through the book with copious handwritten notes in the margins, the line that stopped me and made me truly dig deeper was this:

“If there is art, there is hope.”

As these women moved through an era marked by depression, war, and toxic masculinity, I couldn’t help but note the similarities to our news cycle today.

What these women did, though, was remarkable. They continued to create. They evolved and experimented beyond the landscapes and flowers that had been at the forefront of paintings before (”dazzling though much of that work was…”), and sought to be different in a time when “the only thing they could be sure of was themselves.”

It’s a worthy reminder: All we have to be sure of is ourselves.

While we can’t control everything going on around us, we can control our actions and reactions. We have that.

It’s easy to retreat into anger, into fear, and into rage. I certainly do at times. What’s harder—and much more powerful—is to stand in our power and claim what is ours: Joy. Energy. High vibrations.

It brings me back to a quote I love from Dr. Maya Angelou:

“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”

When everything out of our control seems to be spiraling in a direction we’re not in line with, apathy isn’t the answer. Apathy is privilege. Instead, we must take our rage and our disappointment and use them to inspire action.

The action, in Ninth Street Women, was artistic experimentation and creation, and it was also more than that: It was building and participating in community.

Let us use that as inspiration today. Creation and community are where we find camaraderie. They’re where we find strength to keep going. And, perhaps most importantly, they’re where we find joy.

For me, that’s in painting with my grandchildren, who have no fear or self-doubt, then heading outside to lay in the freshly fallen snow to create snow angels.

It’s in seeing the students in my painting classes create something new; mix a new color; be courageous with their paintbrush.

It’s in communing with friends, colleagues, and local business owners who are equally as dedicated to making this world brighter.

Joy is a spark, and that spark creates the energy we need to keep going. To keep our vibration high; to spread light.

There is always hope. Let’s not just hold onto it; let’s expand it.

Making color and finding inspiration

When I was coming up with the theme for my showcase at The Cheshire Union in Canandaigua that’s going on February 3 through March 15, I knew I’d found it when I landed on Making Color.

It’s inspired by my own use and teaching of how to use a limited palette — a technique learned from my mentor, Lori Putnam, where I use just three colors and white to create an array of gorgeous colors that make up all of my paintings.

It turns out that having less options gives way to more creativity, and the colors tend to come together more naturally.

I’ve gotten to see exactly how much it’s helped my paintings (along with the hours of practice I’ve put in over the past few years!) as I participate in this month’s STRADA challenge.

The idea? Paint from life each day for the 31 days of January, and post it to social media. I wrote about it the last time I participated, in 2019, reflecting on the connection I found to myself and my art by overcoming fear and sharing my work.

This time around, the mood is much lighter — in fact, one of my reasons for revisiting the STRADA challenge is to embody my word of the year, inspired.

Being inspired, for me, is stoking curiosity. It’s finding energy and joy in what’s around me. It’s being present—pausing to really soak in what I see, feel, hear, taste, and can touch.

The STRADA challenge feeds from that inspiration, where every day of this month, I get to bear witness to something in my daily life that I may not have noticed before, then paint the story as it develops.

Like “A Trip to France” from January 6th, where I baked a croissant to enjoy with some brie cheese, then naturally felt inspired to put on my beret and decorate my table with beautiful flowers…then paint it.

Or “A Step Back in Time” from January 4th, when I remembered that I had my grandmother’s diary from 1939, and took it out to reminisce of simpler times as I read about her making a dress for her daughter (my mom) on a snowy day. That led me to grab a lantern, and tell the story on the canvas.

Even this past Sunday, when it “warmed up” to 30 degrees Fahrenheit and I ventured out to a snowy field near my home to paint, I breathed the air in differently, intentionally soaking up the crisp chill.

Just as I ask myself every day of this month what story I want to paint, I intend to spend every day this year asking myself how I can embody inspiration.

The world brings plenty of things to dampen our spirits, and in those moments of tragedy, hatred, and darkness, our greatest form of generosity and resistance is in being the light.

I hope you can find inspiration in your days. And I hope you’ll join me in spreading light.

If you need to find either inspiration or light on a particularly tough day, visit me on Facebook or Instagram to follow along with my painting challenge. I can’t wait to see you there. 💛

The best is yet to come

Each year when I was young, my grandma Leta would come by the house at Christmastime dressed as Santa, there to deliver the biggest box of chocolates my tiny eyes had ever seen.

It was pure magic, if you asked me, and it was one of the things that made the holidays so special. (And yes, I still love chocolate.)

It was that memory I had in mind as I painted and designed our Christmas card this year, that dons a Santa on the front and a message that flowed from inside of me right onto the page:

“Believe in goodness, in magic, and in the power of love.”

After a fairly heavy November in the world, I turned my calendar to December with an extra sparkle in my heart.

I woke up to fresh snow on the ground and the lights of our Christmas tree and decorations twinkling throughout the house, and found myself steeped in gratitude for the angels; the “Santas”; the special people who’ve touched me so deeply throughout this year.

From traveling to the Plein Air Convention in the Great Smoky Mountains to meet, paint, and learn alongside artists I admire and aspire to be like, to painting with my bare feet on the ground during Art in the Open in Ireland and feeling the spirits of my ancestors…

I know the experiences I’ve been blessed with this year have given me the strength to keep moving forward through thick and thin (or, in painters’ terms, fat over lean 🙃).

I’ve participated in and been accepted into shows throughout the Finger Lakes — including the National Women’s Hall of Fame in Seneca Falls — and as far as Laguna Beach, California, and continue to teach what I’ve learned and experienced to others, paying it forward in homage to the teachers I’ve had.

Perhaps most of all, I get to be Grandma CiCi to three incredible grandchildren who fill my heart and art on a daily basis, and I get to do what my grandma did for me, all year long: Make sure they experience magic.

Who knows what the next week, month, or year brings, but stopping today to witness, acknowledge, and appreciate all the good that’s happened makes me certain that not only is there still so much good in this world…

The best is yet to come.

And I don’t know about you, but I’m excited for it.

Happy holidays. Be safe and continue to spread your light. There’s someone out there who’s day will be brighter because of it.

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P.S. While our hours of light continue getting shorter, I’d love for one of my paintings to bring brightness, warmth, and love into your home. 🌙

From now until the end of 2024, use the code HEAL in my shop to redeem 50% off any of my paintings.

I’ve had the incredible honor of re-homing many of my pieces over the last few weeks since this sale started, and my heart could not be more full.

If you truly cannot afford a painting but still want to spread light and healing to someone in your life, please email me at cindy@harrisstudios.com and we'll make it happen.

My only ask is this: After you've gifted your art, please send me a note sharing the story of who you gifted it to and the impact it's had. 💛

Rekindling the fire

I heard a story recently: Following a previous night’s campfire, the storyteller went out to the fire pit, found a tiny burning coal, added some air and straw to it… and watched the fire rekindle itself back into a roaring blaze.

The story struck me, particularly in light of the events of the past week since the election. I’ve felt a fire inside of me rekindle and reignite far hotter and brighter than I’ve felt in a while.

And it’s clear it’s not just me.

As I stood at the National Women’s Hall of Fame last Saturday at the opening of the Creative Women of the Finger Lakes Art & Craftivism Exhibit, dressed in black and surrounded by other artists and patrons—like-minded women and men, still numb from the election results—I felt a collective power.

Months ago, I stumbled across the call for submission for this juried exhibit; a call for work that’s representative of how the women of the Finger Lakes view and express themselves on the subject of human rights, voting rights, gender roles, equality, and immigration.

I submitted two pieces:

We Were Born to Fly: A painting honoring my great, great, great grandmother, Maggie Collins, who braved a cross-Atlantic journey solo in 1830 with her 12-year old son, Martin, to give him a better life after her husband/his dad passed. The bravery of her and so many other women that came before me have given me the courage, strength, and permission to fly.

Reflecting Strength and Courage: A self-portrait painted with my daughter and granddaughter in mind, with gold and lavender for women’s suffrage, and forsythia as a commitment to continuing in my own healing so I can continue to fight for women’s rights.

I’ve long dreamed of my art residing in the National Women’s Hall of Fame in Seneca Falls. But I never could’ve imagined that my work would be accepted just weeks before misogyny won out at the federal level — and that it would be in this powerful context, where it’s standing amongst incredible other works in the name of activism.

I’ve let myself sink into hopelessness a few times over the last week… but attending the opening of the exhibit reminded me that the fight for human rights for all humans is alive and well in our communities.

And the coals that have been simmering just received the air they need to relight into flames and roar.

As I was writing this post, a newsletter dropped into my inbox from a fellow artist, Louise Fletcher. Her words were like reading my own thoughts:

“When things get tough, artists have a unique role to play. We are here to shine a light; to tell stories that comfort, challenge, and inspire. Our voices, expressed through art, music, dance, writing, and all forms of creative expression, are more than just our own—they are mirrors that reflect the human spirit back to those who may need it the most…

What would happen if each of us decided to let our art be a force for good in these times? Not to ignore what’s happening, but to offer an alternative—a space for peace, insight, and shared humanity. Imagine if, instead of sinking into fear or frustration, we used our brushes, pencils, and voices to remind others (and ourselves!) that hope is real, that empathy matters, and that we’re capable of change.”

We can continue to create with empathy, kindness, and connection in mind. We can keep the fire roaring, for ourselves and our future generations.

In fact, we must. And we will.

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P.S. The exhibit is live at the Women’s Hall of Fame through March of 2025… if you get the chance to visit it, I’d love to hear about your experience connecting with the powerful works housed there.

And—if you can use a bit more light wherever you are in this moment, I’d love to help make that happen. From now until the end of 2024, use the code HEAL in my shop to redeem 50% off any of my paintings.

I’ve had the incredible honor of re-homing many of my pieces over the last few weeks since this sale started, and my heart could not be more full.

If you truly cannot afford a painting but still want to spread light and healing to someone in your life, please email me at cindy@harrisstudios.com and we'll make it happen.

My only ask is this: After you've gifted your art, please send me a note sharing the story of who you gifted it to and the impact it's had. 💛

Through art, we can heal

I was behind my teaching easel midway through one of the painting classes I lead when I looked around the room at my students and noticed one, in particular:

Red eyes, tears gently rolling down her cheeks, paintbrush in motion.

She was crying. Her tears were silent; almost easy to miss.

Having heard her story during our intros earlier in the class, I immediately recognized these tears:

Tears of release. Of healing. Of joy, gently prodding its way out of her.

This particular student went to art school 20 years ago, where she was told by a professor that she was never going to make it as an artist. That feedback changed the trajectory of her life—she switched her major, going down a different track that took her into a profession in health and healing.

But on this particular Tuesday, paintbrush in hand, she was reminded that she is an artist. And with every brushstroke, she regained her sense of self.

It would take more than our hours together, but her journey to healing her broken heart got its initial spark that night as she released years of external messages and ingrained beliefs.

I’ve had the privilege of witnessing this healing time and again.

Of seeing women who’ve heard different forms of the same message…

That they are not an artist. That art isn’t a worthwhile pursuit. That creativity is child’s play.

…suddenly be reminded of the healing power of art.

The healing that took place that night was felt by the whole class, and it has no doubt created a ripple effect—one I’ve talked about before.

Art is energy. Art is peace. Art is love.

And through art, there is healing.

There’s healing in the creation of it. There’s healing in the consumption of it.

As we enter a time of year where the leaves are falling—a subtle message from the trees that it’s okay to let go—I invite you to release the voice in your head that’s holding you back from the healing you’re capable of.

And if you’re open to it, let art be your guide.

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P.S. I've long said: Art is an active piece of the room it lives in. I’d like to think every single painting I’ve shared or sold brings light and healing from whatever wall it adorns.

It’s my mission to bring my art to as many homes/offices/gathering places as possible, where my paintings can spread light, take on new stories, and help others heal.

With that in mind, I'm gifting you 50% off any of the paintings in my Shop to use between now and the end of 2024. Just enter the code HEAL to redeem it.

If you have someone in your life who could use a little more light; someone you want to express gratitude for; someone you want to help heal...

I would love it if you'd consider gifting them a piece of my art.

I know it to be true: When you look at a piece of art, you can be taken away. You get the opportunity to write your own story. Everyone deserves this experience.

And if you truly cannot afford a painting but still want to spread light and healing to someone in your life, please email me at cindy@harrisstudios.com and we'll make it happen. 

My only ask is this: After you've gifted your art, please send me a note sharing the story of who you gifted it to and the impact it's had. 💛

What’s calling you?

As I pulled into Sonnenberg Gardens to paint last week, something I’ve done countless times, I took notice of an area I’d seen before, but never really paused to witness.

It’s a statue of Goddess Diana, housed in her Temple, under Roman arches.

It’s not new, and I’m not new to this space, but on that day, I felt an unavoidable pull to her.

So I grabbed my supplies, approached the sculpture, and set up—and I suddenly understood why my heart called me her way.

The scene was such that Diana resided in the shadows, gently contrasted with the brilliant sunlit walkway into the Italian Gardens that she watches over.

This interplay of the shadow with the light is something I’d been thinking about a lot in the week preceding this visit, as I began witnessing nature’s transition from summer to fall. The beginning of September tends to renew my sense of awe at the light and shadows that define this time of year.

But more than that, later research into Diana revealed to me that, as the goddess of the light and of the moon, her ties to nature, wilderness, power, reclamation of oneself, femininity, and the cycles of life were undoubtedly calling to my heart that day.

It was fascinating to me, how it all connected.

And so it was there—with Diana present, but quiet, in the shadows watching over the walkway leading people into the light—that I sketched, un-rushed, feeling the serenity of the moment. I let myself be guided by the light, allowed myself to sink into the shadows, and went where my brush led me, knowing that capturing the light and shadows was everything I needed to transport me back to that crisp, bright September day when I revisit the sketches to create a larger painting later.

On that day, like so many others, I listened to what called to my heart.

I was reminded, like I have been so many times before, that life will happen with or without me struggling to work more, try harder, or control what’s not mine to control.

When I can lean into nature—the cycles of the moon that sharpen my intuition and renew my sense of wonder; the sounds and smells of nature that bathe me in energy and reground my spirit; the light and shadows that remind me that many things can be true at once—this is when I feel most alive.

This is when I can feel, deep within my soul, that I’m on the right path for me.

Today, and every day, may we give ourselves permission to embody Diana’s fierce strength, independence, and connection to the natural world. May we let ourselves be consumed by awe. And may we give ourselves permission to listen to our hearts and take the path we’re called to explore, knowing that the universe will lead us where we’re meant to be.

The feeling of home

Nearly 200 years ago, in 1830, Maggie Collins and her 12-year old son, Martin, left Ireland on a sailing vessel headed west after losing their husband/father.

Their nearly five-week journey culminated in a trip down the St. Lawrence River into Ontario, Canada, where they lived before relocating to northern New York State and becoming US citizens.

Martin married a woman named Mary Ann, and together they had 13 children. One of those children was my great, great grandfather, James.

The story of Maggie has long been a reminder to me of the strength of the women in my family; how they’ve often defied odds and forged their own paths.

So when I had the opportunity to travel back to my roots and stand on the same ground as Maggie once did, I had to take it. That opportunity was presented in July, when I traveled to Wexford, Ireland, for Art in the Open.

It didn’t take long after arriving to feel it:

The stories held in the landscapes.

The history displayed in the architecture.

The essence of pure life carried on in the citizens.

It felt like home.

As I burrowed my feet into the daisies on the top of a hill while painting Hook Head Lighthouse, I felt grounded in the present, and excited about the future.

A new part of my soul emerged, as often happens when I let myself truly sink into a new place. I let that guide our 10 days there, where from early morning to late night, we took in as much as we could of the landscape, the history, and the people, going to bed with a deep and peaceful exhaustion that led to the most restful sleeps.

I tend to feel a similar serenity wash over me when I’m out of routine and traveling, and as in other times, I absorbed it deeply, letting the landscape, the ocean, and the misty air coat me.

On one particular day, I was huddled under an overhang close to our hotel, painting as the rain came down. A father and his young son walked by, his son dressed in a bright yellow slicker and matching boots.

They stopped to see what I was doing, and before thinking twice, I asked if I could take a quick picture so I could incorporate them into the painting before they went on their way to the boy’s swim lessons.

An hour later as they emerged from the lesson, they asked to peek at the final painting. The smiles that passed over their faces are smiles I’ll never forget, and when they showed up at the public exhibition at Green Acres Wexford at the end of our 10 days and bought the painting, they left an indelible mark on my heart.

On another particular day, I wandered into an old abbey, where I saw a statue of St. Thérèse with a prayer engraved:

“May today there be peace within.

May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.

May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content knowing you are a child of God.

Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.”

It’s this prayer that I’m carrying with me today as I process the incredible experience Ireland, with all its beauty and its people, gave me this summer.

Because we are all exactly where we are meant to be as we continue onward to what’s next for us.

We have infinite possibilities.

We are free to sing, dance, praise, and love.

And we must keep using the gifts we have to pass on love. To spread light. And to keep writing the stories our ancestors started for us.

Every moment is magic. Are you ready for it?

From the moment I touched down in Asheville for this year’s Plein Air Convention & Expo (PACE), I knew the trip had been sprinkled with some sort of fairy dust.

My friend and fellow painter, Meg, and I walked up to the rental car desk, expecting a Kia, when the agent asked if I’d be okay with an orange Jeep.

That was the first of many Godwinks I experienced in just one week, because surely my dad was up there with a smirk on his face as I was handed keys to the car I’d dreamed of owning since I was a teenager.

Next was the arrival at the conference hotel. It was like showing up to a Disney World for painters, with everything thoughtfully curated and a feeling of magic in the air.

Like my first experience at PACE last year, I knew I was among my people.

Over the week, we got to watch demos from world-renowned artists like Joe Paquet, Kathie Odum, Anne Blair Brown, Kami Mendlik, Larry Moore, and so many more.

We painted for hours per day on the grounds of the historic Biltmore Estate, in constant awe of its grandeur.

We got caught in the pouring rain in the strawberry fields, quickly gathering our materials to huddle under the protection of a farmers market stand, where someone walked around passing out the juiciest strawberries I’ve ever tasted.

In one week, I experienced an incredible amount of moments beyond my wildest dreams.

The camaraderie. The mentorship. The recognition of so many people I’ve admired for so long. The chance to simply soak in the mountain air and let each day unfold as it would.

I was a sponge, open to absorbing all I could.

Throughout the week, I was able to identify what’s missing from my process, or rather, what I haven’t allowed myself to do:

Slow down.

To take a beat, and take the time to feel the energy of the subject matter. To immerse myself in the moment, and in nature. To sketch and figure out the composition and what I want to say before I start painting.

As always, what I learn in my painting is typically the lesson I most need in life.

Take the time to slow down. To immerse myself. To sketch; explore; be open.

Treat every moment as if it’s magic, because when you’re doing what you love, it truly is.

It took me years—maybe even decades—to understand how pivotal painting is to my wellbeing. Being an artist feeds my soul, just as being a partner, a mother, a grandmother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a teacher, a mentee, does.

I can’t fully immerse myself in painting like I did for that magical week at PACE every day, but that doesn’t mean my day-to-day can’t include sketches; value studies; journal entries as I observe nature and life; books about artists; conversations about art.

Art lives in my bones.

Every once in a while, I need an infusion of community, inspiration, and respite to resurface what’s inside of me, but once I do, I know there’s no stopping me.

And while it’s taken me a while to get to this place, I also know this:

The angels and teachers appear when the student is ready.

I, Cindy Harris, am a student of this life who’s open and ready.

Are you?

Dandelion seeds and the magic of dreams

When I was little, I’d traverse the fields around my home, on the lookout for as many dandelions that had gone to seed as I could find.

It was at this stage, of course, that I could take a deep breath, close my eyes, and blow those seeds into the wind while silently sending my wishes into the atmosphere.

I truly believed this was the way to make my dreams come true: Just blow on the “pom pom” and send it forth.

With the full blooming of spring, not only have I seen the dandelions go to seed alongside the tulips and lilacs opening—I’ve also felt an awakening, aliveness, and encouragement in my energy, my relationships, and my work.

I’m taken right back to those childhood days, only now, I have the gift of hindsight to show me just how many of my wishes have come true.

Lately, that’s shown up in my work as getting the opportunity to attend the Plein Air Convention & Expo (PACE) this month for a second year, having an advertising spot in Plein Air Magazine, and filling classes I’m teaching at Pat Rini Rohrer Gallery.

Personally, that’s shown up as recentering my health in my life, spending as much time with my grandkids as I can, and nurturing the friendships I’ve been blessed with.

It’s magic, really…all of it. This life. The doors that continue to open as others close. The opportunities we have to keep wishing; to keep dreaming; to keep putting one foot in front of the other as we make things happen.

This past weekend, I watched my granddaughter Lottie blow her own dandelion seeds into the wind, and I saw that magic continuing to live on.

Whether it’s finding those white puffy tops and placing your wishes on their floating seeds, or throwing a penny into the fountain, or blowing out your candles on your birthday cake, or happening to glance at the clock at 11:11…

Know that your wishes CAN come true. First, you have to believe. Next, you have to show up. And finally, you have to trust.

Then let go, knowing that the universe has got your back.

When I'm 64

🎶 Doing the paintings, digging so deep, Who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I'm sixty four? 🎶

Sixty four used to sound so far away (after all, I’ve been listening to this song by The Beatles since I was a kid—and yes, I made a slight edit to those lyrics!), and yet now that it’s here, I’m happy to say I don’t feel very old.

While I don’t have grandchildren named Vera, Chuck, and Dave sitting on my knee, I do have Henry, Nico, and Lottie, and life is good.

In fact, just last week, I had Lottie sitting on my lap, paintbrush in hand, while Henry and Nico stood at their easels, each letting their paintbrush do as it pleased during the total solar eclipse.

My family had gathered on a hilltop overlooking the Bristol Mountains—the place my daughter was married just a few years ago.

Together, we felt the way the air took on a temporary chill; saw the shades of cranberries, oranges, and deep blues that circulated through the sky; heard the sound of the crickets chirping louder and louder as they anticipated what they thought was nightfall.

I knew I wanted to paint during the eclipse, and I knew I wanted to share that experience with my kids and grandkids.

What I couldn’t have known was the overwhelming healing power the eclipse would bring or the strengthening sense of connection I felt between my family and I as we painted, chatted, and witnessed the alignment of sun and moon.

It was dribbles and drabs of paint that ended up on the kids’ canvases. Dribbles and drabs that will be cherished forever.

More than a week later, I’m sitting on my front porch for the first time this spring season, watching the birds at work making their nests, the squirrels exploring the pine tree, and the dew on the grass burning off in the sun.

I’m instantly inundated with the same healing energy of the eclipse as I sit here, hidden from responsibility and the world.

It’s an energy I’m welcoming more and more of as life brings its inevitable transitions.

Just before the eclipse, I helped move my mom to a new home in another state, where my sister lives. The trip itself was divinely guided—my mom and I became closer through it, and she’s found herself happier than she imagined to be where she is.

I make no qualms about the fact that I was not meant to be a full-time caretaker. I went into art, not nursing, for a reason.

I have so much love to give. I have so much light to give. And I care deeply about the people in my life.

But I know my true healing power comes through art.

My mother took a few of my paintings with her. They’re hanging in her new living room.

My grandkids, even at their very young ages, consider painting a form of play.

My students in my classes at Pat Rini Rohrer Art Gallery—from complete beginners to lifelong artists—are tapping into their potential, finally understanding what they struggled to understand about light, color, and the roadblocks to creativity.

Art is healing.

Creativity is magic.

And at 64, I’m living my mission every day to bring more of that healing and magic into every day, for as many people as possible.

What healing energy will you open yourself up to accept? Tell me, in the comments below. I can’t wait to hear from you.

🎶 Give me your answer, fill in a form, Mine forevermore. Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I'm sixty four? 🎶

Release

It seems like ages ago now, but around the time that both my kids were researching and applying for colleges, my neighbor was also enduring his last days.

The intersection of all of these monumental events had me feeling one way: Helpless.

It wasn’t a feeling I knew what to do with. After all, I have always been someone who thrives on action. I like to have control; to have a game plan; to solve.

These were situations where none of that was possible, and so I put my neighbor’s name on a card. I put the word “college” on a card. I put other things I’d been persistently worrying about on cards. And I dropped them into an open jar.

I told myself what I knew to be true: I don’t have control over these things, and so I must release them to a higher power, whatever that spirit/god/universe is.

Once in the jar, I relieved myself of worry, knowing there was no point in thinking or dwelling on the things inside. I could put them there knowing they would be taken care of. I could have that space back for creativity, presence, and love.

I let the jar remain open, knowing, like a butterfly, those things would fly when they were ready.

A few years later, I found the jar. I pulled those cards out, astonishing myself with how those things truly did come together as they were supposed to, without my intervention; without my worry influencing the outcome.

Fast forward to this year, when my word for the year made itself known to me: Release.

After mornings of waking up weighed down by worry, diving into the day with concern and uncertainty that I didn’t want to bring into my art, my relationships, or my self-compassion, I knew that it was time to bring the release jar practice back.

To honor February as a month of love, I cut little hearts from an expressive painting of gouache I’d done with the inspiration of The Creativity Course by Larry Moore, and I began to write my concerns down.

I added them to the jar, set it on my windowsill, and let the lightness settle in.

Each time I see the jar, it’s not a reminder of what I can’t control; it’s a reminder that I don’t need to control it all. Everything will be taken care of. I don’t need to worry about it anymore.

This practice isn’t about abdicating responsibility. It’s about acknowledging what I can and cannot control, and releasing that which is outside of my grasp.

In the coming weeks, months, and years, I hope you can do the same.

Release the things you cannot control… even if it’s something you’ve been nurturing for years. 

Sometimes things need to fly free to figure themselves out, and in the meantime, you can experience the levity that will allow you to show up in your life, your relationships, and your art as you wish to.

(And if you need a reminder that you are enough, head right over here.)

P.S. If you’re willing, share your release jar with me. I’d love to see a picture, and to send releasing vibes to your worries with you. Drop it here in the comments, or post it to social with the hashtag #cindyharrisart. Thanks so much for being here.

Don’t wait for the path to appear

Before we dive into today’s missive, I want to start by saying this: I believe that the universe conspires in our favor. I believe that serendipity is real. I believe our thoughts become things.

And. I also believe that none of that works if we don’t.

Whew, how’s that for a start?

Now, bear with me as I share with you why this is top of mind, and important for the year ahead.

For more than 25 years, I’ve successfully run an award-winning graphic design + branding firm as both owner and creative director. I’ve been able to help countless businesses across winemaking, tourism, manufacturing, nonprofits, and more create authentic, creative packaging + identities that bring both strategy and heart to the forefront.

And I’ve been able to do it in a place I love, the Finger Lakes of New York State.

Over the last seven of those years, I began to take my passion, plein air painting, much more seriously.

What sat on a shelf for so long got the dust blown off of it as I shifted my focus, worked with Lori Putnam as a mentor, and felt my dream become even stronger after a life-changing trip to the south of France.

And in a blur of activity, that brought me to 2023, a year that felt pivotal for my art.

It was the year I realized: Few can wait to be discovered. If I want to be accepted into larger galleries and invited to larger shows, it’s up to me to do the work to make that happen.

And so, with the help of Gina Ward and the team at Plein Air Magazine, I developed a marketing plan that helped me bring a higher intensity to the visibility of my art, introducing me to people and partnerships that have meant the world to my business.

I’m doing the work, and while it’s at times scary, vulnerable, and overwhelming, I know just how important it is.

I just finished an inspiring book, The Secret Life of Sunflowers by Marta Molnar, based on the true story of Johanna Bonger, Vincent van Gogh's sister-in-law. She inherited van Gogh’s paintings upon his death, which were worth nothing at the time, and she introduced them to the world, cultivating his legacy.

Next on my shelf is The Story of Art Without Men by Katy Hessel, an important book that questions: How many women artists do you know? Who makes art history? Did women even work as artists before the twentieth century? And tells the stories of women artists who’ve overcome the odds to make their mark with art in this world — and have hardly received the recognition they deserve.

For centuries, women have propped male artists up, with their own work largely going unnoticed. It’s an undisputed fact that female artists have had more barriers to face.

And while we’ve made exponential strides leading up to today, it doesn’t change the fact that the work needs to be done, and we will likely always have to work just a little harder for it.

I say this from a place of excitement; of inspiration; of realism.

Don’t ever give up on your dreams. There may be bumps in the road, people who don’t agree with you, or those who say things that hurt.

Listen. Journal. Go to therapy. Whatever you do, don’t let it stop you. This world needs your art, your light, your legacy. And that can only come from you.

This year brings a fresh start, one in which I’ll be clearing out my online shop to make way for the new, one in which I’ll be traveling to Asheville to participate in PACE for the second year in a row, and one where I’ll be attending Art in the Open in Ireland, the largest plein air festival in Europe.

My dreams are bigger than ever, and with a devotion to the work on my end, the magic is yet to be revealed.

I can’t wait to hear what magic 2024 brings for you. Thanks for being on this ride with me. 💛

When you hear the bells ring…

Earlier this month, on a trip up north with my mom and sister, my mom asked us to take a detour to drive past her old home on her family’s dairy farm on Tug Hill in the Adirondacks.

As we approached the land where she grew up, where she milked cows in the barn and tended the garden near her family’s modest home, she recounted a story of a Christmas past, one I could feel the magic in. One that reminded me of simpler times.

It inspired the painting above, and it’s what I’d like to share with you today.

In her words:

It was approaching dinner time on Christmas Eve — the evening when Santa visited our house. All four of us kids rushed in from doing our chores in the barn and in the pastures, eager to strip off our heavy coats, boots, hats, scarves, and mittens as the sun set and dusk set in.

We’d spent the day sneaking glimpses at the sky, each wanting to be the first to see Santa’s sleigh, despite knowing he wouldn’t visit until we were fast asleep.

The moment the door to our house opened, we were welcomed by the smell of oyster stew and pecan pie Ma and my Grandma had been preparing all day.

We hung our heavy gear and started to get the table set. Even though dinners together were frequent, our Christmas Eve dinner always came with magic in it, each of us always having one eye on the sky.

Rushing to get the dishes done after we’d properly stuffed our bellies, we gathered with our parents and grandparents around the lit tree adorned with our homemade ornaments, excitedly chattering about what Santa might soon put under that tree.

Pa reminded us that we needed to be fast asleep in our bedrooms for the magic to happen, so we took our anticipation with us up the stairs, where we changed into our pajamas and got into bed, never stopping our whispering.

And there it was — the bells ringing.

We were out of our beds in an instant, running down the stairs to find our gifts — a new pair of ice skates, a sled, a new hat + mittens knit by my grandmother, doll clothes made by my Ma.

As we cuddled up in piles on the living room floor around the tree, we continued to steal glances outside, where the full moon lit up our still-fresh footprints in the sparkly, frozen snow from just hours ago.

The night was still. The moon and stars, big and bright. The air was crisp. There was a deep, gentle peace surrounding us, but inside was charged with excitement. The fire, big and bright. The air, warm, and the feeling of love, prominent.

Dear friends…

I could feel the hustle + bustle of little footsteps in that old home as my mom told me her story, and it was a hustle + bustle I could actually get behind — one of excitement; of coming together; of love on a deep, peaceful night lit only by the full moon and the bright snow on the ground.

I wish this deep peace of gentle nights for you throughout the holidays + this winter.

May you always feel at home, and never alone. May you take a break from the hustle + bustle of daily life and let the excitement of being with ones you love wash over you. 

May you hear the ringing of the bells and know just how much this world needs your love + light.

Happy holidays, from my home to yours. 💛

We can all be the light

I’m fortunate to be many things in my life: A daughter, a wife, a sister, a mother, a friend, a collaborator, a student, a teacher…

But my favorite so far has been Cici, the name I’m called by my three grandchildren.

Each and every time I’m with them, splashing in puddles, painting with smocks on, or reading stories, I’m flooded with love, with gratitude, and a deep remembering of how to play -- how to experience wonder, curiosity, and happiness each and every day.

I was recently at my daughters’, reading with her and her two little ones. The book was Goodnight, Hattie, My Dearie, My Dove, illustrated by my 5th grade art teacher, Linda Strauss Edwards.

I was instantly transported back to 11-year old Cindy, enamored with the idea of illustrating childrens’ books; inspired by my teacher who was out there creating.

While it’s not the path I ended up following, aside from a whirlwind and wonderful trip to NYC years ago with my husband and kids to have my sketches reviewed by the Society of Children's Book Writers + Illustrators, Linda was a positive force in my life who saw my potential, helped stoke my fire, and encouraged me to follow my passion.

Sitting on the floor in my granddaughter’s room, I felt the rush of wonder; of curiosity; of happiness that used to envelope me when creating art as a child.

I could confidently say I was an artist in the 5th grade.

I can also say that somewhere along the line, that confidence as an artist fell as other priorities took over.

As I’ve reclaimed myself as an artist over the last few years, I’ve thought deeply about the influences I’ve had; about the myriad positive forces I’ve been blessed with.

I’m reminded that a “random” act of kindness can transform a life; that a positive piece of encouragement can change someone’s thoughts of themselves; that paying attention to an individual can alter how they pay attention to themselves.

My calling is to be that person for others — to see their potential, help stoke their fires, and encourage them to follow what brings them joy.

I may not have a large platform or space on a bestseller list, but I know if I keep touching people with my light and love, even just one at a time, it will spread.

During a deep group meditation on Monday evening, I was visited by three distinct women from my life.

The first, a student I had in a painting class I teach who’s since passed and is with us in spirit; the second, a 5th grader whose class I spoke to years ago who was hugely impacted by art in her life; the third, a phenomenal fine artist with whom I’ve been exploring the idea of her illustrating maps as a way to expand her passions.

As always, upon coming out of the meditation, we’re encouraged to share what transpired for us.

For me, it was clear: Yes, I paint for me. But the finished painting isn’t what’s important.

What’s important is the acts of kindness and generosity done along the way.

I may not be able to silence the naysayers in others’ lives, but I can be the light that fortifies them so their resilience can shine.

I can give myself space to experience wonder, curiosity, and happiness each and every day, so that I might help others do the same.

I know you can, too.

Spread your light. Show your love. Share your gratitude. Create what brings you joy.

And remember, if just one person sees that light; feels that love; hears that gratitude; is inspired to create by what you’ve made…

This world will be an infinitely better place.

P.S. I believe that art is an active piece of any home, and the goal of mine is to bring more light into yours this year. Dance on over to the shop, where you can take 23% off all paintings through the end of this calendar year. Just use the code THANKS23 💛

I am grateful for today

I’m sitting here in the middle of a park in Bloomfield, NY, with the wind blowing, the clouds moving, and the leaves beautifully transitioning. 

Yesterday, I held my baby granddaughter in my arms, feeling the love emanating from my heart to hers, and vice versa.

Last week, I traveled to the Hudson Valley for a retreat where I meditated, went on many hikes, and watched the sunset from a sky top tower built in 1921.

It all seems surreal, and I’d be dishonest if I said I wasn’t utterly confused.

How can I experience a cocoon of breathtaking beauty as others around the world experience horrific acts of violence?

It’s an unfathomable reality, and as I cope with my own heavy heart, holding space for the women, men, and children experiencing inhumane atrocities and feeling relatively helpless, I know the one thing I can do is continue to spread light.

Today, that looks like sharing five affirmations I repeat to myself when I find myself being tugged into despair. 

My hope is that you, too, can put your hand on your heart, and use these to remind yourself that you matter:

❤️  I am goodness. I am love.

❤️  I feel peaceful, grounded, safe, and secure.

❤️  Everything is unfolding for me in perfect timing. I release worry and choose to trust.

❤️  I radiate calm, patience, and serenity.

❤️  I am grateful for today. I accept the gift of the present moment.

Thank you for being with me here today. May those of us who can continue to spread light; to spread love; to spread the reminder that we are all humans, and we all matter.

I appreciate you.

The gift of listening

My heart started beating a little faster when I heard it: The sound of the geese flying past my house, on their way south.

I was sitting on my porch this morning, candle lit, wrapped in my favorite afghan. With my eyes closed, my heart could feel what my ears were registering, and for that brief moment, it wasn’t my own thoughts.

It was the realization that this is the first time I’ve heard the geese. It was the appreciation that the morning is growing darker with each day that passes, and the chill in the early morning air is increasing. It was a reminder that the season is once again changing, and life will keep going.

Early mornings in solitude on my porch is one of the few things that remains absolutely consistent in my daily routine now that I don’t have babies to feed or children to get out the door to school.

It’s a chance to listen to my heart and align my day ahead with what it is I want to do to bring joy both to myself and to others.

On days I let my mind take over, my body tightens. I consider the projects I could be using this time on. I think of the laundry that needs to get done. I go through all the “shoulds” of the day.

But on days when I let my heart guide the way, I hear the geese. I witness the fog lifting across the road from our house, unveiling a dew-soaked field. I get a front row seat to the changing of the seasons; the shifting of the light; the cyclical sounds of nature.

And each time I let myself just be in the moment, I know that this is not just how I want to live; it’s how I want to paint.

My heart is saying: Paint this feeling. Paint this shift. Paint with this ritual language that nature is speaking, and don’t try so hard to be good.

Last week, I sent a note to my mentor, Lori Putnam. I told her my struggle: I continue to have this thing, this affliction where I find myself constantly asking myself if I’m good enough.

Her answer is one I will remember forever: “Hmm, is it good enough? Good enough for…??? Nothing I paint is good enough for me to like it, even one day later. That’s both the struggle and the incentive, isn’t it?”

I, like most of the artists I know, am my own harshest critic. I struggle to consider my work good enough… and I am incentivized by the relentless pursuit to keep learning; to keep experimenting; to keep creating.

As I try to during my early mornings on the porch, I need to let my heart guide the process. Paint from the feelings. Appreciate the surroundings. Let my whole body listen.

If we could all give ourselves this gift of really listening, even if just in small pockets throughout the day, perhaps we could all resist the temptation to do more and just be.

With each season comes a reminder that life will keep going. Here in the Finger Lakes, the leaves will turn in the coming weeks; the days will grow even darker; the air will become chillier.

I want to grab hold of it all. I want to appreciate the moment and keep moving toward the joy that awaits me in the future.

And in 10 years, I want to look back just as I do now and think: Wow, how far I’ve come.

I want the same for you.

P.S. By the way, my favorite mug for my morning coffee was made by an artist friend, Jessie in the Bristol Hills of NYS. Check out her work right here. ☕️