The surprising gift of self doubt

My grandson, Henry, approached me with the kind of genius idea that can only come from a child’s mind:

With trucks and cars in hand, he asked if he could run them through paint.

Minutes later, I’d put paint on my palette, and there he was, creating artwork with his toy vehicles as the tools.

He had no worries about whether it would be successful. He wasn’t thinking about what it would look like on Instagram. He definitely was not concerned about whether it would be “good enough” to submit to a show.

Just a kid, his cars and trucks, some paint, a canvas to drive around on, and a whole lot of fun.

Every once in a while, that little-kid inspiration comes knocking at my door (sometimes literally; sometimes metaphorically), and I’m reminded to just play.

As I sit on my porch on this unseasonably warm February day, I think about what play releases me from, and it’s an easy answer:

When I approach things from a play mindset, I let go of self doubt.

It’s a freeing feeling, but it also makes me wonder: Is self-doubt a necessary part of being a creative person?

And, more importantly: Is there opportunity in it?

Without self-doubt seeping in here and there, I might not continue to go deeper. I might not explore as much as I do. I might ignore what my heart is reaching for.

I might not play, in the first place.

If I didn’t question myself, I might grow complacent, continuously doing the same thing.

And stagnancy is more scary to me than self doubt.

My word for this year is empowered.

Empowered, to me, is confidence. It’s growing. It’s listening to my heart and intuition in making decisions. It’s becoming stronger. It’s empowering others.

Just saying that word — empowered — makes me stand up straighter at my easel and paint without self doubt.

Okay, with a little less self doubt.

Because if self doubt is the thing that inspires me to keep growing, to keep listening to my heart, and to play, I will welcome it in and take the opportunity it provides.

It’s mid-February as I’m writing this. We’re in the middle of the shortest month of the year that also tends to feel like the longest. And today’s unseasonable warmth comes with winds.

I’m watching the light glisten on the big pine tree branches. Witnessing the dance-like movement and sound that’s coming from the wind whooshing through the trees and the cornstalks. Wondering how to mix that purply-blue-gray I see on the background mountain to have the correct value and chroma and energy.

There’s a force; a wildness. And I can’t help but think of Mary Poppins:

“Winds in the east, mist coming in, like something is brewing, about to begin…”

I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I can’t be sure of what’s brewing.

But I do know “anything can happen if you let it”, and I’m grateful for each and every reminder I have to grow, listen, and play.

The old becomes new again

Each and every January, I find myself embarking upon the same sort of adventure around my home: Organizing + decluttering.

Adventure might seem like a funny word for this, but for me, that’s exactly what it is…

An adventure into the past, the present, and the future.

Last week, as I pulled a dress I wore as a baby from an old trunk, it wasn’t with the goal of purging my possessions.

My organizing and decluttering adventure takes me on a journey to rediscover the treasures I’ve accumulated over the years.

It’s taking time to admire the old snow shoes hanging on my wall or paging through books on the shelves…

It’s spending an afternoon sorting through drawers full of antique lace and running my fingers over old tatting from ancestors…

It’s wandering around the house organizing collected buttons into mason jars; rearranging old tin pitchers; hanging the hats and vintage clothing in different places.

Some people might look around my house and say I have too much stuff.

I look around my home and say I’m surrounded by stories.

I’ve always loved old, vintage things, well before vintage became a trend.

I feel the energy in them. I appreciate the time spent on them. I imagine the people who had them before me, and then assign them a new story based on my imagination that day.

These old “things” are a connection to the past and an opportunity to reinvigorate objects with new life.

They also make up the treasure chest from which I assemble my still life paintings when our freezing, gray winters take over in upstate New York and I’m forced inside to paint.

(Call me a wimp, but I’ll take my tea, music, and studio heat over bitter cold winds and snow!)

Similar to plein air, though, I set up my still lifes in a way that will tell a story, then work to experiment with the light and color until I can express the light and shadows the same way I would a scene outside.

The baby dress I rediscovered last week is currently laid out in my studio, arranged with great care alongside a bowl + pitcher I found at a yard sale and a primitive washboard from my Irish great grandmother, all set in front of an old chest.

Sometimes I take a few minutes to assemble a still life; sometimes hours; sometimes days.

Then I warm my tea, grab my brushes, and paint the story of those old objects bit by bit in the north light that streams through my studio windows.

It’s with these serene painting sessions in mind that I go through my “clutter” each January.

And it’s in these painting sessions where the art lets the light in, the old becomes new again, and the story continues.

Awaken your wildness

The loon breaks the silence of the morning
Awakening a wildness to be who we were meant to be all along

As I dreamt up this year’s holiday card, whose message began with the lines above, I was flooded with a memory from this past summer:

Asleep in our Adirondack cottage in the thick of summer’s heat, I was awakened by a loon on the lake, cutting through the complete silence of moments before.

The sound of a loon is hypnotic; mysterious…and beautiful.

Without thinking, I got out of bed and was drawn to the water’s edge, where I gazed up at the stars and the moon.

The message I heard was clear: It’s time.

Time to slow down.

Time to celebrate the miracles of the past.

Time to recenter and forge my path forward.

Later, as I sat down to write this final note of 2022 on the blog, I found myself reliving other moments and miracles from the year:

✨ Waking up on a beautiful morning after a rain-filled night, with the grass glittering under the fresh and clean sky. The birds singing.

✨ Being with my dad as he passed, and continuing to feel his spirit in different ways daily.

✨ Holding my new granddaughter to my chest for an hour as she slept. Feeling my heart expand even larger than I thought possible with the birth of our third grandchild; three little loonlets to love.

✨ Growing ever deeper in my painting and experiencing the simultaneous magic of being both student and teacher as I passed on what I know through workshops and classes.

✨ Catching the light in flocks of birds; connecting with sheep as they nourished themselves with food; waking up to the sun and feeling it throughout my body.

There are the big trips — to Staithes, Key West, Charlotte, TN, Brooklyn. There are the major transitions — birth, and death.

And then there are the daily miracles that come in small moments and micro connections…

The ones that remind me of how wildly alive we all are.

Not every day brings opportunity for pause, for slowing down, and for reflection.

In the moments I can create for it — through painting, through journaling, through walking and movement — I find myself amazed at the abundance of miracles I can find, even amongst the chaos.

As we usher in the winter solstice and the new year, I hope you find the opportunity to slow down, reflect, and recenter.

In there, I hope you’ll find peace + permission.

Peace in knowing that you are doing the best you can with what you have, and everything will work out as it’s meant to.

And permission to let yourself awaken your wildness and let the next year be expansive.

I’ll leave you with the final lines of my holiday card, as I hope it’s what becomes true for you:

May your new year be invigorating with heart and soul 
Full of love and inspiration.

xo Cindy

Bringing back the magic

“CiCi, it’s snowing!”

My 3-year old grandson’s excited voice rang out through the room, beckoning me over to the window to see the flakes fall.

It was our first snowfall of the season here in New York State earlier this week, and I was fortunate enough to be with Henry at the time.

He couldn’t wait to get his hat and gloves out, pull on his snow boots, and experience the feel, smell, and taste of the freshly fallen snow that the ground was struggling to hold onto.

I’ll admit: I didn’t share his level of excitement.

Instead of wonder and awe, my heart suddenly felt…heavy.

A list started forming in my head.

Decorate the house, bake the cookies, design the cards, get the tree…

I felt the weight of it.

In that moment, I shoved it aside to indulge in the magic of the winter wonderland being created outside with my grandson.

But this morning, the list began to replay in my head as I checked the calendar.

As the heaviness began to return, I wondered…

How can I get that childlike wonder back? How can I experience the magic inside of me? How can I feel that joy?

In the past, all of these pieces of the holiday season brought me so much joy. This year, they feel like items on a list that have to be checked off.

I’ve been feeling a lot of this in my life lately. Not just around the holiday to-dos, but in my businesses, in my home…

Things that I typically enjoy have begun to feel like have-tos instead of get-tos.

When that happens, I stop feeling the magic.

As I write this all down now, answers are showing up in the way they tend to.

Slow down.

Eliminate what’s not necessary.

Walk in the woods.

Read. Write. Pray. Paint.

Connect with friends.

Not everything has to get done.

And not everything has to have the jaw-dropping awe of a 3-year old witnessing their first snowfall of the season.

But so much of what we do can be more joy-filled if we approach it with presence.

Folding the laundry? There’s no real magic there. But there’s joy to be had when I can put on one of my favorite playlists and allow myself to feel the different textures and warmth of the towels.

Driving to an appointment? I can call a friend to catch up or sit in much-needed silence as I appreciate the landscapes of the beautiful Finger Lakes region.

Making my Christmas list, and checking it twice? I can eliminate the things that aren’t going to bring me joy this year (knowing they may well in the future), and focus on the things that light me up and mean the most for myself and my family right now.

Life is full of things we can do.

There are myriad things we feel like we have to do.

And there are so many things we get to do.

One of my favorite Dr. Maya Angelou quotes that I’ve surely shared here before goes like this: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

I carry this into my interactions with the people and strangers in my life, but I also take it to heart when looking at my to-do list.

How can I make things feel better? 

When I get curious about how I can bring more joy into the things that remain on my list, the magic reappears.

This time of year can be especially tough for many people. If that’s you, take heart. Have courage. Slow down. Don’t worry about getting it all done. Focus on what lights you up and let yourself feel the magic where you can.

I’ll be over here looking ahead to the next snow, ready to steep my tea and watch the flakes fall.

P.S. It seems I have this same question — about renewing wonder — around this time, every year. Life truly is cyclical, and some lessons have to keep being learned.

Living in the Colorful Grays

As we packed up our easels on our last day together in rural Tennessee, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss.

It was, after all, our final invite-only, small group workshop with Lori Putnam, our incredibly talented tour guide who’s nurtured us through countless lessons in our artistry.

My fellow journey-goers and I, now a tight-knit crew of artists who’ve been through four intimate workshops on Lori’s land with her, were on the cusp of being set free; of flying the coop; of earning our wings.

So with that sense of loss came a real sense of excitement, because not only was I about to embark upon a new phase in my calling as an artist…

I also began embracing the lesson I needed most during this last workshop; a lesson I feel I’ve been learning for years:

Learning to live in the colorful grays.

I tend to be an all-or-nothing thinker. Nowhere is this more blatantly apparent than in my plein air paintings, where my shadows tend to show up as the deepest darks they can be.

In Lori’s words, I sometimes take my shadows to “a scary place.”

Maybe it’s the recent passing of my dad. Maybe it’s the shift I’m feeling in my career from a designer to a full-time painter. Maybe it’s the weight of the world right now. Maybe it’s the soon-to-be arrival of my newest grandchild…

The grief I’ve felt, coupled with the excitement and joy I’m experiencing, has made me realize that when shadows appear, I need not go to that scary place.

I’ve experienced enough light to be able to explore the lighter, the warm, and the cool shades of gray.

For nine days together, we studied color. We experimented with gouache. We worked to create an imbalance of the light with the shadow using Notans and sketches.

And in a curious twist of process, we found ourselves collecting info while on the grounds of Bloomsbury Organic Farms in Smyrna, TN. Not painting a particular scene; but assembling a story.

We studied the details: The colors, the values, the light, the shadows. We sketched. We created palettes.

Then, we returned to Lori’s studio, where we told our own version of what we saw in our final painting.

Without the trick of the light right in front of me, and without the deceiving contrast a photo captures, I had only my notes and my memories for reference.

I felt myself embracing these colorful, lighter grays — not painting en plein air; not painting from a photo sitting next to my canvas back in the studio… but bringing in real creativity and composition to tell a story all my own.

I dug deeper into my own reserves, understood more of what I was putting on the page, and ultimately created a piece that embodies my voice even more.

Living in the colorful gray is freeing.

It’s also intimidating.

When we cast the rules aside; break from certain constraints… it frees us up to bring our creativity to the table.

And with that creativity can come uncharted territory.

It’s my plan to stay curious; to keep exploring the warm and cool grays.

I am so grateful for all I’ve learned from Lori. And. I’m grateful she’s kicking us out of the nest.

I cannot wait to see where I land.

An untethered soul + a life well lived

As I was leaning over to grab my bag off the floor of my car the other day, something glimmered.

A quarter, shining up at me.

“Hi, dad,” I thought, my heart swelling with both grief and joy.

I will forever think of my dad when I find random change around. He always seemed to spot it, wherever we went… and now I’m certain he’s leaving it for me.

It’s not just found money that will bring me back to memories of the most kind and caring person in my life.

It’s slow sips of coffee overlooking a foggy Brantingham Lake as a loon peacefully swims by, leaving a long ripple of water behind it, reminding me of the way my dad moved through life leaving ripples of joy, peace, and presence with everyone in his midst.

It’s the taste of blackberries, taking me back to our adventures to his “secret spots” in the Adirondacks, where he’d take my sister and I and our little berry pails, his somehow filling up with handfuls in no time, while ours filled up slowly, berry by single berry.

It’s the strokes of my paintbrush, delving deep into the roots of my plein air painting, stemming from his unabashed love for nature, the land, and animals.

Two weeks out from my dad’s sudden passing, I can say that each of these memories brings more joy than grief, though accepting that he’s actually passed is not easy.

My dad was 88. He lived a good, long life.

We gathered on what could not have been a more perfect September day to celebrate his time here. Evidence of his good life was everywhere: In the sun, in the incredible people who came to pay their respects, and in the love that cocooned us all.

Soon after the service ended, the couple who bought my parents’ home a few years ago approached me.

In their hand was a keychain they’d just found, a Mickey Mouse-themed letter A, that had been hiding on a shelf in the barn that both my parents and my sister and I had thoroughly cleaned out.

Chills went through me. I held that keychain close to my heart, hearing my dad saying, “Just have fun, Cindy. Enjoy life.”

My dad grew up simply, surrounded by nature in the Adirondacks, without most of the comforts we know now: Electricity; indoor plumbing; central heat or air.

He didn’t need much to make an adventure, a blessing he passed on to my sister and I.

He was patient. He was grateful. He was kind. He was a joy to be around.

Most of all, he was present.

Dad lived in the moment.

He pulled his red truck over when we asked to get out to roll down a hill or go for a swim.

He’d sit in a treestand for hours, fancying himself a hunter, but really just there to observe the deer and birds in their natural state.

He smiled a smile of pure joy each and every time he opened a new pair of flannel-lined L.L. Bean pajamas.

He worked hard, yet always had a smile on his face. He never had a list, and yet somehow everything always got done.

When I think of my dad, I’ll remember an untethered soul. A person just happy to be.

Well, dad, I’m just happy I got to be with you.

Thank you for everything. I love you completely.

Tend to your light, first

This morning, as I embarked upon the same ritual I do each and every month of sitting down to write this blog, I had an unfamiliar feeling come up.

I was empty.

Where typically I’d have a dream the night before or a divine download hours before writing, this morning was…different.

I wasn’t getting anything. I wasn’t hearing the voice I normally do. I wasn’t in tune with my inner world like I usually am.

Disheartened, and honestly confused, I pulled on my boots and went out for a walk in the rain.

Just over a mile into the walk, my senses woke up.

I took note of the leaves that seemed to repel water, with giant droplets sitting idle on their surface.

I contrasted that with the leaves that glimmered, shiny from quenching their thirst with the abundant rain.

I noticed the puddles, their shapes, and their reflections. I thought about how my grandson, Henry, loves pulling on his own yellow boots, his little voice saying, “C’mon CiCi, let’s walk in the puddles!”

I talked a bit to the trees. I stood in awe for a second at a vibrant blue jay. I thanked the rain for filling the creek.

By the time I’d finished the 2.5-mile loop around our block, I felt cleansed.

I could breathe again, the feeling of emptiness beginning to dissipate.

As that cloud lifted and my creative cup refilled, I reflected upon many conversations I’ve had with a small group of women I’ve become fortunate to have in my circle.

These women are all empaths: Highly sensitive individuals with an innate ability to sense what people around them are thinking and feeling.

It’s more than a personality type; it’s a way of being in this world — one I’ve recognized as my own.

Being an empath has empowered me as a creative.

It allows me to truly engage in the energy of the scene I’m painting; to intuitively understand the frequencies of the objects I’m sketching; to feel the feelings of the people and animals I observe.

I can fulfill my promise of creating art that lets the light in because of my empathic nature.

And.

As much of a superpower as being an empath is, it doesn’t come without its challenges; it’s threats to my own wellbeing.

In soaking up the energy of the room; in taking on others’ emotions; in letting my own boundaries falter, I easily find myself drained, resentful, and out of touch with myself.

While I’m typically very careful about what I let in for this very reason, life, lately, has been full of very high highs, countered by very low lows.

In just trying to keep up with the pace of things, while also reconciling the deep, hard feelings with the overwhelming joy of the good on the other side, I let my own light burn out.

There isn’t a person I’ve spoken to recently who hasn’t felt some level of this.

And while many of us have gained a resilience we didn’t know we possessed as the world has tested us over the past few years…

One thing we cannot do is continuously carry that which is not ours.

Not without tending to our own roots, first. Getting out in nature. Putting brush to canvas. Speaking to our own spirits. Drinking more water. Sitting in solitude.

Empath or not, we must find our own protections, refill our cups, and rekindle our fire.

The world needs your light. It’s up to you to tend to it so it can keep shining.

I’ll be over here, doing my best to do the same.

Who's at your dinner party?

Last week, I was pushing a stroller around the Brooklyn Museum, in exploration mode as my grandson, Nico, peered inquisitively at the lights and people surrounding us.

Suddenly, I found myself at a dinner party.

Not just any dinner party. This was The Dinner Party, a momentous piece of feminist art created by Judy Chicago from 1974-79.

I read about The Dinner Party in college. Its place settings honor and acknowledge 39 women who’ve made their mark on our history, with another 999 named and forever commemorated in the inscriptions. The piece has made its way around the world, being exhibited in six countries on three continents before landing, permanently, in Brooklyn.

Nico and I meandered around the triangular table, admiring the painted china; the needlework; the inscribed tiles — and reading each and every of the 39 place settings.

(One of us was a bit more enthralled than the other, but I’d like to think Nico learned a lot that day!)

At that moment, I was flooded with an overwhelming feeling of serendipity.

Simply being in Brooklyn with my grandson came from a spontaneous ask by my son and a beautiful synchronization with my schedule that allowed me to say yes.

Behind that is an unfathomable amount of micro moments that have occurred in my decades here on this Earth — moments where I faced a proverbial fork in the road; where I encountered a tough situation or had to work through a difficult emotion; where I had to navigate an uncomfortable path.

Each of those moments brought me here, today.

Perhaps even more importantly, each of those moments connected me to the people I’ve been blessed to know along the way.

As I walked around The Dinner Party — and as I reflect on it now — I find myself assembling a dinner party of my own; a gathering of the beautiful souls I’ve been inspired by, learned from, collaborated with, loved, and been loved by.

I’m taken back to the moment when I decided to transfer from one college to another, where I’d eventually meet my now-husband who I’d build my beautiful family with.

I’m transported to the first meeting with my now longtime friend, Sherry Brahm, who opened up the world of travel and tourism for me.

I’m reliving the moment I first walked into Pat Rini Rohrer Gallery, in a fog of despair after my son went off to college; a moment that led me to oil painting, plein air, and teaching workshops of my own.

Today, each of those moments seems serendipitous.

Hindsight has provided me with the ability to see the synchronicity in those moments. 

Reflection has gifted me the insight to appreciate the serendipity of how different threads of my life have been woven together. 

Love has made me want to gather all of my people together at my dinner table — sprawled over my front lawn on a warm summer night.

With my community surrounding me at my table, it’s easy to see how my story has unfolded and come together so far, and inspired me to keep saying yes; to keep collaborating; to keep sowing seeds that will expand my table every day into the future.

Go to Staithes

It seems hard to believe that just a week ago, I was waking up to the sound of the sea, and the seagulls and shorebirds who call it home.

I was in a private room above the Staithes Gallery in England, with a window overlooking the coral-colored rooftops of the quaint seaside village.

Every morning, I’d let myself wake up slowly, then saunter out for tea, crumpets, and strawberry jam before a full day of painting.

I was there under the tutelage of my mentor, Lori Putnam, at a workshop organized by Workshops in Yorkshire and Rosemary & Co.

Each day, we’d find a spot to set up our easels, run through a demo or instruction, and set about painting. One afternoon, we were treated to a boat ride from a fisherman so we could see Staithes from the water. That same fisherman showed up to dinner that night with a few lobsters.

From behind my easel, to the fisherman’s boat, to each and every “goodbye, love” we were sent off with, every day was brimming with an almost fairy tale-like magic.

I was filled with exhilaration; with serenity; with awe. To be in a new place. To be surrounded by absolute beauty and incredibly kind people. To be spending my days putting brush to canvas.

But more than anything, I was overcome by the realization that for the first time in a long time, I felt like myself.

I could hear myself think. I could let myself feel. I could just be.

Away from the day-to-day responsibilities of life, I had room to remember who I am when I’m not a mom, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend, or a business owner. (All roles I cherish.)

For one week, I could dive deeper into my work, let my brain become the sponge it yearns to be for learning, and experience the solidarity of 10 other artists doing the same.

It only takes a few minutes of being away from it all to realize:

We live in a noisy world.

A world full of inputs — more than our brains and bodies were ever meant to take in, process, or handle.

A society where productivity is celebrated more than passion.

A time when it feels like taking care of ourselves needs to fit into the margins.

I returned from my trip relaxed, with a renewed sense of resilience, confidence, and energy — and an incredible lot of paintings.

More than anything, though, I returned with a reminder of what it is to be me.

“Go to Staithes. There is no place like it in all the world for painting.”

These were the words spoken by a drawing instructor to a young Laura Knight (née Johnson) at the turn of the 20th century, an artist who would go on to become one of the most successful and prolific painters in England.

She likely couldn’t predict that decades later, a group of 10 artists, including myself, would follow that same advice and retrace her footsteps through the stunning seaside village — and come out rediscovering themselves.

Carry on

The sun was coming up over the Atlantic as I savored my morning coffee and thought to myself, “What’s next?”

I was in Florida, on a small getaway with some girlfriends that I didn’t realize I was in desperate need of.

Over the course of four days that simultaneously felt like they flew by and lasted a lifetime, I completely broke my routine. I didn’t do any painting; any journaling. I packed a sketch pad that never left my bag.

Instead I walked. I ate. I laughed. I let myself just be in each and every moment. And in those moments, I wondered:

What’s next? Where have I been? Where am I now? Where am I going?

I turned 62 last month. Is this when I start coasting, or am I just getting started?

I let my subconscious work its way through all of those questions as I filled my cup up with what it needed most: rest.

And through that rest and presence, I came to an overwhelming conclusion that’s been reinforced over and over since I returned home:

Just carry on.

I’ve always had deep-seated goals: Be a painter. Help others using art. Be the best human I can be, and change the world with what I do. (Small goals, to say the least.)

Every time I pause, I feel this overwhelming need to create even bigger goals and higher aspirations for myself.

And yet, the answer during this particular pause was glaringly obvious: If there’s any goal to create for myself right now, it’s to let go of control.

It’s to trust.

It’s to continue on the path; stay the course. It’s not to fight to find “answers,” but to trust that things are going to work out exactly as they’re supposed to.

It’s to carry on.

There are times in life that need us to move the bar; that call us to transform.

And there are times in life when the work we’ve done in the world and on ourselves shines bright, and all we need to do is say yes to all that comes our way.

Carry on. 

Trust that whatever path you’re on right now, if you keep going, you’ll grow in ways you never imagined and land where you’re meant to.

Each day is a miracle, and sometimes the only thing we need to do is to appreciate it as such.

💜

P.S. Much of the world is in chaos right now. As I celebrate the rest and renewal I received from this short trip, I can’t help but feel at odds with the suffering that so many people are enduring each and every moment.

I have to remind myself: Joy and suffering are not mutually exclusive. If right now you’re experiencing darkness, you’re not alone.

And if your world is bright, carry on + shine your light to give those around you hope. 

Finding sanctuary in places, spaces, and people

I knew it was time when I walked outside and smelled the first hint of fresh grass.

Spring is here.

I walked straight to the garage and got to work bringing out the wicker furniture, colorful pillows, rugs, and accents.

With an excited urgency, I revived my sanctuary, the one that goes to sleep for the coldest months of the year, before coming back to life the minute the air changes in spring.

It’s my front porch. My place for rest; for reflection; for creativity.

On my porch, surrounded by the decoration of past and present, I feel truly at home. 

We all need safe, nurturing spaces.

Something magical happens to me when I’m on my porch. I feel more creative. I feel lighter. I feel more in tune with the rhythmic cycles of the natural world.

It’s not just the ambient sounds of birdsong. Or the light breeze that makes its way through the screens. Or the warmth of the rising sun.

It’s also the antique bird cage I found at a flea market years ago. And the chipped metal pitcher that was once my grandmother’s. It’s my cat, Rocky, cuddled up beside me, waiting for me to take a break from painting to pet him.

Looking at the antique bird cage, I’m reminded of a 1993 interview with Oprah, where Dr. Maya Angelou was reflecting on the writing of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. 

In it, she said this: “I don’t agree with Thomas Wolfe’s statement that you can’t go home again. My belief is that you can never leave home. You take it with you, wherever you go. My past is my present.”

I don’t come out to my porch to escape. I come out here to be reminded... of all that’s happened in the past to bring me to today. Of all the present happenings, both light and heavy, that are testing my strength and building my resolve. Of the future, and all that there is to look forward to.

Bearing witness to the world around me, via the news, social media, and in private conversations with friends and family, it’s clear that while life is beautiful, everyone’s got it hard in some way, shape, or form.

Everything that has happened to and for us has gotten us to where we are today. All that we’re going through right now — no matter how hard — is shaping who we’ll become. 

It’s all so, so worth it.

And. The simple truth is this: We can’t do life alone.

Without spaces that make us feel safe and nurtured, whether that be in particular places or people, it would be very hard to survive.

For the next few months, you’ll find me on my front porch. Taking each day as it comes, finding solace in my sanctuary, and leaning on those who lift me up — in hopes I do the same for them.

I’d love to hear from you: Where do you find sanctuary? What people and places in your life create a space that makes you feel safe and nurtured?

Kindness compounds

Just over a week ago, when I was mired down in the news, feeling a familiar heaviness building up in my chest as I took in the horrific events happening around the world, I heard from the leader of my local art gallery, Pat Rini Rohrer.

The artists at the gallery were joining the worldwide initiative to paint sunflowers, the national flower of Ukraine.

I shut off the TV, stopped the scroll on my phone, and found my feet carrying me to my studio of their own volition.

Hours later, I had my painting, Raining in Kiev, ready for the show at the gallery, where all proceeds would benefit Ukraine.

While I was painting, I thought of the millions of families — not just in Ukraine, but all throughout the world — fleeing death and destruction as refugees.

I thought of the journalists and photographers risking their lives to share their stories with the rest of us.

I thought of the humanitarian workers, struggling to get aid where it’s needed.

With each brushstroke, I asked myself, “What can I do?”

And, the real question: “Does it matter?”

Then I reminded myself, we can all cast individual ripples.

Small as they may be, the effect they have can extend far beyond us.

The way I see it, those of us with the privilege of having a roof over our heads, a refrigerator full of food, and a car to put gas into have two choices:

We can watch the news, let the fear, anger, and sadness overwhelm us, and become paralyzed.

Or we can take one tiny step; make one tiny change.

For me at that moment, my tiny step was pouring my heart into a sunflower painting.

For the collector who called me just hours after it was posted, it was purchasing the painting so the proceeds would be passed on.

For you, it could be making a phone call to a friend who needs a familiar voice or listening ear.

It could be buying a gas card for your local child advocacy center who transports kiddos to crucial mental health appointments.

It could be taking the grocery cart to return for someone who doesn’t have time to run it back.

These things might seem inconsequential, but I’d argue the opposite.

Each and every time we show even the “smallest” act of generosity in this world, we spread kindness.

And kindness compounds.

What’s one small kindness you can give the world today?

—

P.S. In case you need this reminder, too: Sometimes, your kindness will be curling up on the couch with a good book to recharge your own spirit. As the saying goes, put on your own oxygen mask, first. When you take care of yourself, you’ll be much better equipped to show up for others when the time comes.

The ripple effect one person can have

Every Tuesday around 6:05pm, there’s a reverberation throughout Main Street in Canandaigua, NY. It’s not something that can be heard, but it can be felt.

It’s around this time that the group of students in my painting class at Pat Rini Rohrer Gallery get settled into their seats, then take turns saying, out loud,

“I am an artist.”

Some are students who’ve never picked up a paintbrush before. Some have taken multiple classes with other artists and have come to my class to learn a different style.

All of them find it difficult to say these words, out loud, with conviction.

Yet it’s how we start each class: “I am an artist.”

Because each and every time they work up the courage to declare it? A small stone drops into the water, casting an outward ripple of confidence; of hope; of creativity.

Soft as that ripple may appear, the wave it creates carries a weight that none of us can measure the impact of.

That wave is the positive, powerful energy that’s needed to make change in this world, one person at at time.

Each Tuesday evening in my tiny corner of the world, it begins as I drop my own stone, creating a ripple of energy among my students that they funnel into their learning and art that night.

As they make their own declaration, claiming their power and owning that energy, they cast new ripples that they funnel outward.

Onto who knows who; who knows what.

The possibilities are endless.

We all have this power within us — to make change, one ripple at at time.

Like the impressionist style of painting my students come to me to learn — one that relies heavily on the play between light and shadows — the world carries its fair share of dark and light.

When we’re faced with some of the harsher realities of life, it’s easy to be paralyzed by anxiety, overridden by overwhelm, and stuck questioning what it is we, as one person, can actually do.

The answer is quite simple.

To spread the light, we need to cast our own gentle ripples — finding the good, and casting it outward.

Not with force, but with love.

And then watch, with amazement, at how a “gentle” ripple can create such a powerful wave.

Curating moments: The magic of collecting original artwork

On the last night of my most recent workshop with Lori Putnam in Tennessee, a few of my fellow artists and I decided to exchange paintings. 

Gathered in a circle, we pulled names from a hat. I was so excited to select the name of my friend, Anthony Collins, who had brought with him one of his paintings from the week. The painting was a scene from a farm in Dickson where the rancher so generously allowed us to set up our easels that day. 

Standing in front of the painting today, it brings back the memory of the Texas longhorns and chickens roaming, a new calf being born in a nearby field, the demo that Lori gave on how she paints the essence of animals without all the detail, and the lesson I’d learned that week to grab hold of what was in front of me as I painted the full moon the night before.

Hundreds of miles away and a few months separated from the week-long workshop, Anthony’s painting floods me with the sights, smells, and sounds of that magical week and immediately transports me back to moments that continue to bring me so much joy.

This is the magic of collecting original artwork.

As I scan others adorning my studio walls, I land on an original piece I acquired from Sara Linda Poly after attending a workshop of hers in Canandaigua.

It’s a blossoming azalea bush at Sonnenberg Gardens, lush with shades of violets and greens. When I stand in front of it, I’m immediately brought back to the smell of summer gardens, even on this dark January day. And — perhaps even more fulfilling — this painting also reminds me of a lesson I learned from Sara: To slow down. To create beautiful things with sanctity rather than speed. To make my trees dance.

Each day as I travel throughout my home, I move from moment, to experience, to lesson as I stand witness to the artwork I’ve gradually acquired and decorated my walls with.

I learn from these pieces as I have in the art history classes I’ve taken; the museums I’ve visited; the books I’ve read; the lessons I’ve given to my students; the periodicals I’ve subscribed to; the workshops I’ve attended.

When standing in front of a piece of original artwork, I can’t help but feel the magic of the colors, values, and brushstrokes applied spontaneously by the artist. An artist who had the same vantage point I do in this present moment, seeing the same scene and yet likely taking something entirely different, but no less meaningful, away from it.

The pieces I’ve collected, slowly but surely and always with intention, give me reference points. They give me inspiration. They give me stories and dreams. They bring beauty to my home.

Every year I strive to add to my collection. I look to acquire — through buying or trading — pieces from artists I’ve met; artists I’ve learned from; artists I admire.

My latest purchase was a piece of Lori’s, a scene of the home of Andrew Wyeth she painted from his property. It carries so much value for me: A painting done by my mentor, of the homes of one of my favorite artists dating back to high school when I saw one of his shows in New York City. 

I can get lost for hours in the stories this painting fills my head and heart with.

As I continue to build my collection (my wishlist is deep!), I fortify the walls that surround me every day with magic, curating moments that I can step back into in a simple meander around my home.

As I mention in my Shop, art is an active piece of the room in which it lives.

My hope is that the art I create brings inspiration, stories, and beauty to those who acquire it. My hope for you is that you might find art that brings you that magic, as well.

Taking root

I have a recurring daydream that goes a little something like this:

A woman is boarding a ship bound for America from the coast of Ireland. She has very little with her, but sewn safely inside the hem of her woolen coat is a cutting of a Christmas cactus that she received from her grandmother, long since passed.

She carries it with her and the weight of her world feels lighter because of it.

As I stare at my Christmas cactus on this December day, in full bloom in an upstairs window of our old home, I replay the daydream. I know the origin of it isn't exactly that of my imagination, but it carries a beautiful history with it, nonetheless.

Mine started as a cutting from my mother, who received a cutting from her mother, who was gifted a cutting from my great-grandmother...and on it goes, even deeper into our lineage.

While some years come and go without its vibrant flowers ever opening, this simple, resilient, and unrelenting Christmas cactus has continued to take root wherever it's been planted, in home after home, through generation after generation.

Not only has it been yet another tie I have to the strong women of my past...

It's a reminder that blooming where we're planted is a matter of strength; of resilience; and of taking up space so that we can spread our light to others.

Much like the joy, warmth, and nostalgia that my Christmas cactus gives me, I've found painting to be what roots me, allowing me to spread my own joy and light to others.

For the women who came in generations before me, it was cooking. It was sewing. It was gardening. It was parenting. It was community service and activism.

Through hardship; through joy; through change, these women kept their heads up and roots planted as they made their mark on this world.

This year, more than any other, my Christmas cactus is blooming in a way it never has before; showing off its color and life with an unprecedented vibrancy.

While I know it's in part due to finding the right light — the north light that also illuminates my studio when I paint from home — I also can't help but think that my Christmas cactus is reminding me that strength, resiliency, and planting our roots is not just possible, but even more necessary when things seem most awry.

When things remain uncertain.

When news seems to be more bad than good.

In passing down a cutting of this Christmas cactus, my mother gave me more than a simple plant.

She gave me a reminder that I have decades; centuries of strong women who've come before me.

She gave me the encouragement to plant my own roots, and to pass not just literal cuttings of this incredible plant to my own kids, but figurative cuttings of what I know down to the students I teach in my painting classes.

With nothing more than the right light, sporadic watering, and very little other attention, this Christmas cactus evokes nostalgia for the past and hope for the future.

This holiday season, I pray you can trust in your own strength and resilience, to plant your own roots and spread your light. 

—

P.S. Do you have a Christmas cactus? I'd love to hear your story, and see yours in its light!

Remembering a feeling

I stepped up to my easel in my home studio on a wet, snowy day, paints and sketches in hand.

With a candle lit and my phone tucked away, I traveled back in time to a visit I made to the Iris Country Garden in Geneva, NY.

As my brush hit the canvas, I let myself sink into the smells of the blooming irises and peonies. I felt the warmth of the June sun on my face. I heard the hanging laundry clapping in the wind as it air dried on the line, and the laughter of the kids running through the garden paths without a care in the world.

The scene I re-immersed myself in was one I had experienced first hand more than two years ago, standing in stark contrast to my feelings in the present moment on this dreary, late autumn day:

Fear and worry for the future. Sympathy for others in my life who are suffering. Panic driving my mind, and a relentless anxiety sitting shotgun, directing me down the unpaved terrain of things I can't control.

It's in these moments that I can let those unwanted feelings envelope me.

Or, I can do my best to shift to a place of peace by recentering myself in the life experiences I've had that reignite the feelings I desire more of...

The feelings that remind me that no matter the heaviness of the current moment, everything will be okay.

On this dark, snowy day, it was the plein air painting excursion my friend Meg and I took to the Iris Country Gardens. It was the kindness of the Martin sisters, who bought the farm a few years ago and are creating a masterpiece all their own. It was the memory of exchanging the painting I did that day for a beautiful peony plant that continues to bring life to many of my paintings.

On other days, I travel back to the hills of southern France. Or to quiet mornings with my newborn grandkids. Or to a bench sitting lakeside in the Adirondacks.

I recall the sights. The sounds. The smells. And they bring back the feelings I need more of in that moment:

Feelings of love, fulfillment, joy, laughter, and gratitude.

It's not necessarily an escape from reality; it's a way to make the reality mean more. It's a way to wrap the darker feelings with light, giving me perspective to focus on what I can control, and to stop listening to the anxiety sitting in that passenger seat.

Plein air painting not only gives me the opportunity to stand in a place for more than 10 minutes to really absorb the feelings and the sensations; it gives me the freedom to go back to that place any time I need to.

In painting the clothesline at the beautiful Iris Country Garden, I calmed my spirit and felt more present than I possibly could've had I let the fear, worry, sympathy, panic, and anxiety define the day.

My hope is that you can do the same, particularly through this holiday season.

That you can take pieces of the experiences that have filled your cup, find them when you need them most, and remember:

Everything is going to be okay.

Grabbing hold of what's in front of you

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The sun was setting as we trekked up a hillside on a clear and crisp night, canvases, easels, and paints in tow.

We had time before the full moon was to rise, yet the anticipation in my heart created a sense of urgency that said otherwise.

As I got myself set up on the hill, I went over the scene I'd painted in my mind earlier: The full moon rising over the pristine, still lake, casting a reflection I'd capture with my well-trained brushstrokes.

Then, I looked ahead at what actually lay in front of me.

The lake, yes.

The moon, soon.

And...a large weathervane I hadn't taken into account.

As the moon gradually expanded, pouring its energy into the night, I saw what I couldn't have anticipated before: The weather vane silhouetting the moon.

The angle was unexpected. The reflection of the moon in the lake, obstructed.

The night, though? It was perfect.

A sense of serenity washed over me as I took a breath, erased the painting I'd created in my head, and began the one that would take life on my canvas.

It's this instance, like so many before it, that reminds me: There are moments in life, big and small, that you cannot plan for.

Lessons that will try to teach themselves to you, time and again, before they sink in.

Vulnerability, grief, and darkness that will simmer under the surface until you give them the light.

You can hold onto the resentment that inevitably comes when things don't go as you'd planned (something I've done my fair share of)...

Or you can grab hold of what's in front of you, do the best with what you have in that moment, and accept and embrace the lessons — and the vulnerability — that might come with it.

Under the moon that night, surrounded by nine other professional artists at an invitation-only workshop with my mentor, Lori Putnam in the hills of Tennessee, I felt the culmination of decades of artistic training coming to a beautifully synchronous point.

A point where the learning I've been privileged to do under many mentors over the years, the teaching I've been entrusted to lead with many students, and the practice I've diligently committed to day after day, week after week at my easel, had allowed me to dive into the darkness; the clouds; the eerie shadows and truly enjoy the painting that emerged from what was lying in front of me.

I'm a slow learner. An intentional action taker. Five decades into this beautiful life, I'm still rising.

If you are, too, keep going. We have so much to still experience, create, and share.

The practice of pausing

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I was chatting with a friend the other day who was pondering whether or not she should take a pause from her work at this particular time when her kids are young.

My advice to her? It's okay if you take a pause. The life experiences you gain during it will make your work stronger.

Without conscious thought, these words flowed out of me as I fully embraced my word of the year and reemerged from my own pause.

A pause where I stopped publishing on my blog. A pause where I stopped sending my newsletter. A pause where I backed down on the hours spent at my easel, painting. A pause where I limited the time I spent behind my computer, designing. A pause where I didn't actively market myself or seek out work.

I say I stopped, but I didn't. I paused.

I focused on life and living.

I spent a month in California with my grandson whom I hadn't been able to see in over a year.

I met my newest grandson in Brooklyn.

I hiked with my husband, John, and reconnected with friends.

I continued pouring my old guilt and shame — and processing my new dreams and ideas — into my journal.

And in that time, I completed a gorgeous new visitors guide for Visit Finger Lakes and a cookbook for Birkett Mills. I entered a plein air event in Clifton Springs, where I won a juror's award and sold the painting. I did a plein air demo in front of a 50-person bus tour in Canandaigua.

A pause with intention is not a hard stop.

It meant putting certain things aside to go deeper into life experiences.

It meant leaving space to manifest creativity and light.

It meant allowing time for depth to naturally develop, even without actively practicing a skill.

A pause allows us the break we need from the patterns and routines that govern our day-to-day, so that we can be present in life.

And. Pauses do not come without challenge.

With each and every pause I take, I face the challenge of making space — and not immediately filling it up.

I face the challenge of getting introspective — and not backing away from what comes up when I do.

I face the challenge of prioritizing what's really important — and removing the guilt associated with letting go of the rest.

A pause, in and of itself, is hard work.

Particularly when we're raised and living in a society where productivity has been so tightly wound into our self-worth and identity.

A pause is a practice.

Each time we do it?

Our work will be better for it. Our relationships will be better for it. We will be better for it.

Spreading the light

Back in 2016, I decided it was high time I created an online space for my artwork to live. I'd been running a design business for decades, complete with an established web presence, but my paintings had taken a backseat for too long, and it was time to rectify that.

In the process of bringing my art online, I crafted a tagline for my work that felt just right: Art that lets the light in.

Through all of my art, I have always strived to spread light and a positive spirit.

My new online home was a way to give my paintings another outlet, spreading that light and spirit further; stretching far beyond the gallery showings in my region or even the workshops and retreats I'd traveled to.

While this website was meant to function as a showcase and shop for my artwork, it also came with what is now another essential piece of my art life: My blog.

I perhaps didn't realize its significance at the time, but the written word of my blog would serve as yet another portal to my artwork that could spread my mission.

Five years later, I've published 53 missives (this one is 54!) on my blog — pieces that open my soul up to my audience in a beautifully complementary way to my paintings...

• When I was first re-committing to painting as a full-time practice in my life, I wrote about staying present and finding the little miracles.

• As I went through expansive transformation in my practice, I processed it by writing about embracing vulnerability as a means of growth.

• When I was mourning the sudden loss of a dear friend to many of us, I wrote about connections and a small part of the legacy John Brahm III left behind.

• When I was wrestling with the initial fear and uncertainty around COVID-19, I revisited a lesson I've learned time and time again: That we can't let fear and ego drive every aspect of our lives.

And as I'm about to embark upon a month-long sabbatical from the blog to travel to California and spend time with my grandson for the first time in over a year, I'm walking my talk and embracing my word of the year: Pause.

The more I began to share, the more I noticed its impact.

Through my blog, I've created a way for people — clients; collectors; kindred spirits — to get to know me as a person; a friend, making my paintings even more meaningful.

I've created a vehicle to share some of my personal stories, deepest thoughts and ever-evolving beliefs with readers — practicing vulnerability as strongly as I preach it.

I've created a way to be accountable to showing up once per month, not just as a reminder to other people that I'm here, but for myself.

Much like the body of work I've created with my paintings, my blog is a sacred place I can look back through as I evolve.

And in the meantime, I've increased sales of my paintings. I've earned the trust of more design clients. I've made new friends and strengthened existing relationships.

I pour my heart and soul into my art — it is my lifeline; my sanctuary; my outlet.

My blog is the written, outward expression of the stories behind that art, and I'm so grateful to each and every person who stops by to revel in those stories with me.

It is my hope that it continues to spread light and positive spirit as time goes on.

—

P.S. I share my missives each month in a newsletter that is bound to brighten your inbox. You can sign up for free right here 💜

Which roads have you left unexplored?

Spring rains have brought color and brilliant light to the Finger Lakes of New York State, the region I am so grateful to call my home.

The sheen of rain off the road; the early morning chirping of birds discovering the newfound light; the fields and landscape beds of blooming tulips...these are just a few things that had me incredibly excited to get outside for my first day of the plein air painting season earlier this month.

With my plein air essentials and plenty of snacks packed, my friend Meg and I hit the road to Geneva, NY.

Geneva isn't a new place for me, but on this glorious day, we did something I'd never done in my time exploring this town right in my backyard: We turned down South Main Street, home to the iconic Geneva Row Houses.

In an instant, I was transported to a European country; marveling in awe at the color, the architecture; the history embedded in the walls of the houses that were built between 1808 and 1820.

As I caught my breath, we pulled over, set up our easels, and got to painting under the warmth of the sun, smelling the flowering trees, and experiencing the colors coming to life in front of our eyes.

Not only was it a beautiful day and a very welcome reprieve from the indoor painting I've done in the studio for the last few months — it was also a much-needed reminder that a vacation is always available, from wherever you are.

As I stood there painting a scene I'd only ever recreated from photos before, I couldn't help but think of all of the roads in my neighborhood I've never turned down; the places in my own backyard that I've yet to explore.

With the limitations that the last year of this pandemic have placed on us, finding the beauty, the hidden treasures, and the everyday adventures close to home has never been more pertinent.

Constraint breeds creativity, and this situation is no different.

Do I ache for the day I can hop on a plane to Geneva, Switzerland? Absolutely.

And.

Was my inspiration piqued; my creativity energy restored; my courage in my painting emboldened just by taking a drive to Geneva, NY — a neighboring town I've been to more times than I can count?

Absolutely.

Every day and in every way, we do the best we can with what we have. The good news is this: I can almost guarantee that no matter where you are in this miraculous world of ours, there's an adventure waiting for you just around the corner.

You just have to be willing to turn down the road you've never explored before and open your eyes to all that's waiting to be discovered.