Water Heals Me
Painting has ebbed and flowed during different seasons over my entire life. In 2016 I decided to pursue painting more and invited a few of my dearest friends to join me in a painting class for my birthday. It was such fun to experience making art through the lens of each person. There were tremendous therapeutic benefits of painting through years of my late husband’s multiple health crises and eventual death. At first, I painted to distract myself from grief. I just toyed around a bit. I distracted myself with more supplies and fancier paints . . .
Painting has ebbed and flowed during different seasons over my entire life. In 2016 I decided to pursue painting more and invited a few of my dearest friends to join me in a painting class for my birthday. It was such fun to experience making art through the lens of each person. There were tremendous therapeutic benefits of painting through years of my late husband’s multiple health crises and eventual death. At first, I painted to distract myself from grief. I just toyed around a bit. I distracted myself with more supplies and fancier paints.
The moment I tried to use paint to actually express my grief, I couldn’t paint at all. I tried and tried to make myself paint, but I just couldn’t for a long time.
In the very early days of our relationship, Edwin (now my husband) said to me, “After you’ve had a year or more of rest and of being well-loved, and without all the worries of medical emergencies and the piles of bills – all the energy of keeping your business afloat, running your household, and keeping your husband alive and ALL that went with all of that….that energy is going to turn into something and I can’t wait to see what that will be.”
I fell in love and married Edwin, and moved to live with him in northern Michigan, about 1000 yards off Lake Michigan. I drive by the lake multiple times every day. I can’t go anywhere that I don’t have a wide-open view of the lake at some point along my commute, no matter the direction.
I’m constantly surprised at what the lake looks like. The color ranges of blues and grays are so beautiful, but the unexpected turquoise and emerald greens take my breath away. Sometimes angry looking, sometimes choppy with joy, and other times still glass. I’m shocked at how much the waves change the shoreline and the topography of the lake floor where I swim. The ice comes in quickly and I feel sure we’re locked in until spring, only for all the ice to blow out the next morning. Big car-sized chunks of ice! How does it change so much?
Living that close to such big water has changed me. It wasn’t until I decided to merely splash some paint and water around on little canvas boards that I started to realize all that water has taught me. The water changes and evolves so much over the course of a year. Each season of water gifted me a lesson. My life was finally quiet enough to notice. But it was through my series “Seasons of Water” that I was able to consciously grasp those lessons and it felt miraculous to be able to express those lessons.
Here we are, years later, and I think we know what that energy grew into–this life full of connection to nature, art, beauty, and love. I could have never orchestrated this for myself let alone, predict it. It is purely a Holy gift, a life that came through faith and living by the water.
Doing Hard Things
Comfort is a gift, I truly believe that, but it can also steal from us. It lulls us into thinking we have more time than we do. It robs us from taking action when we should. It keeps us from being vulnerable and telling the truth. It stunts our growth and imprisons us in our patterns. Sometimes I think we worship comfort. I watch people prioritize it over EVERYTHING and that scares me . . .
Comfort is a gift, I truly believe that, but it can also steal from us. It lulls us into thinking we have more time than we do. It robs us from taking action when we should. It keeps us from being vulnerable and telling the truth. It stunts our growth and imprisons us in our patterns. Sometimes I think we worship comfort. I watch people prioritize it over EVERYTHING and that scares me.
Often life throws us into uncomfortable situations and forces us out of our comfort zone. Loss of a job, being forced to move out of our community, medical emergencies. We tend to name those times “bad,” but I don’t think of the things that happen as “good” or “bad” anymore. Circumstances just happen. That’s it. They just happen. My late husband died. I certainly can’t label that good. But I can’t label it bad either. Would I want him to suffer longer? Absolutely not. It’s just what happened.
Now I pay far more attention to my reaction to what is happening more than my circumstances. How I react to things can absolutely be good or bad. That’s what I believe. My response is good or bad.
When I struggle and respond poorly to my circumstances, I find it compounds my problems and causes me to have to spend more energy, time, and resources that I don’t really have to begin with to just get myself back to neutral. That fight robs me. It robs me of my peace, of progress, it even robs me from seeing possible solutions. It certainly robs my art, and everyone around me. I need to get the best outcome in tough circumstances and that requires my full attention and surrender. I have to surrender my comfort.
I noticed that when I do the hard things, it might be emotional, and feel terrible at the moment, but if I do it, I eventually get the good things.
It’s hard though. It’s hard to always do the hard things. This isn’t a skill you’re just born with. I have to learn. I practice doing hard things so that when the REAL hard things come, I have the skills to respond in ways that lead to the best outcomes for my life and the lives of those around me.
The trouble is this can be confusing. Sometimes this means having hard conversations. Sometimes this means refraining from a conversation. Sometimes this means throwing myself into something new. Sometimes this means sticking with something that is hard. Developing wisdom and discernment is crucial to doing this well.
The best boss I ever had once told me, “Do something to help yourself. Don’t just make yourself feel better.” He threatened to have it tattooed on the back of my hands. It was hard. I needed reminding. I struggled. That was some wise advice and I think of it often.
I always feel afraid when I’m faced with doing something hard. I feel every ounce of that fear, and I do it anyway. It feels hard. It feels uncomfortable. But much to my surprise, almost every time I do this the outcome is positive—maybe not instantly, but over time, it always pays. I try to remember all of the positive results from every time I’ve done something hard and use that to give me the strength to do the next hard thing.
The one thing I know for sure is I must do the hard things to get the good things. I’m going to keep practicing.
Finding Focus In Chaos
Finding order in times of chaos is a driving need for me. It’s true in my art and it’s true in my life. In an art sense, order brings me focus. It helps me remember what I love. Moving the eye around a canvas is the goal, but too many similar things in a painting confuse the focus. The constant question I hold the closest is what do I want the viewer to see?
Finding order in times of chaos is a driving need for me. It’s true in my art and it’s true in my life. In an art sense, order brings me focus. It helps me remember what I love. Moving the eye around a canvas is the goal, but too many similar things in a painting confuse the focus. The constant question I hold the closest is what do I want the viewer to see?
Order brings a sense of control over my surroundings when I can’t control all that is happening around me. Purging feels even better. I recently swept through the house eliminating clutter. I worked through a couple of problem closets where I tend to stash stuff and got enough to take a couple of carloads to the local charity shop. Wow, did that feel good.
The same is true in my paintings. It feels good when I let go of lesser things to make room to truly enjoy the parts I love and most want to communicate. What feels right for this painting? What feels like me now? Today? In this new season? It’s an editing process that takes time and careful thought, there’s an ebb and flow. Things come in and things go out. An inhale and an exhale.
Simplicity.
Simplicity is so powerful in my life--I deeply crave it. After the ultimate crisis of losing my first husband, after living in constant crisis for years and years, after living in a house we bought and filled for a life we didn’t get to live, I needed to shed that old life. I was overwhelmed by all of our stuff. Some things just told me to whom they needed to belong. I gifted those things and it felt so satisfying. Our time was done. It was a new season.
I gave away about 95% of everything I owned. Everyone kept telling me to sell the stuff, but I knew that whatever money I might make would never be enough to make up for what it was costing me emotionally and energy-wise at the time. I needed to move quick. I was right. I haven’t regretted one single thing I gave up. I felt lighter and more equipped to move forward. It gave me more life energy.
I try to remember that as I’m analyzing my paintings. It frees me to make decisions that sometimes feel risky but I’ve learned that often those decisions allow me to fall even deeper in love with what I created. I hope that’s true for you too.
New Life Is A Choice
Once I got thrown into this new life, I tumbled about for a bit. I think everyone does when they are cast into a new life. It is so overwhelming! Nothing is the same and I was so raw over it. Every single thing hurt.
Once I got thrown into this new life, I tumbled about for a bit. I think everyone does when they are cast into a new life. It is so overwhelming! Nothing is the same and I was so raw over it. Every single thing hurt.
My late husband died after several years of a violent and mysterious illness. I had been his caregiver and I ran a business and then he died and my life died with him.
I was told the grief/trauma combo packed a terrible punch and that I should seek professional guidance through this season. I immediately hired 3 grief therapists within the first couple of weeks. Well, three because not everyone is a good fit. The therapist I kept noted in our first meeting that I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring. She could see the imprint on my finger. She asked if people had noticed. Indeed they had noticed and had a lot to say about how quickly I removed my rings. She asked why I removed them. “Well, because I’m no longer married.”
I was scared to try and avoid feeling the grief as I thought grief would hunt me down for a terrible reckoning. I was more scared of a reckoning than I was of just sitting in the mess of it. I did A LOT of sitting in misery alone. I had to be alone. No one could understand what had happened to me and I didn’t have the energy nor the skill to educate anyone.
For me, aligning with my circumstances, as much as I hated it, somehow felt safe. I was afraid of how grief would change me. I was led to believe that I couldn’t trust my instincts or my decision-making. I felt very unsafe and unsure. It seemed like the only thing to do, as my therapist put it, was to be “hyper-present with my circumstances”. I had no idea this would be my saving grace. I just had no energy to fight this inevitable new life. I was furious about it. I hated it. I missed my old life in ways I could not have imagined.
I noticed others who got kicked out of their old lives too. I watched them torture themselves by fighting it, wishing and wanting what was already gone. I knew too well it was never coming back. I didn’t have the energy to fight it. I didn’t have enough energy to spend an ounce of it on what was gone. I couldn’t afford to. It took everything I had to bitterly wait for the new life to show up. I certainly didn’t think I could ever be happy again, but I knew holding on to what I used to have wasn’t going to serve me. So I did my best to let it go.
Turns out that New Life demands a choice. I had to choose it. I had to let go of my old life—not my love, my love was forever, but I had to GIVE UP my old life because I simply didn’t have it anymore. It was that choice that gave me room for my new life. I didn’t realize at the time, that vital choice gave me back the capacity for the future happiness I experience now, in this new season. My season of art and beauty and deep joy. That joy came first to me in nature, and then in art, and eventually the making of my new life and my new marriage.
New Life demands respect. I had to choose it. It was the only way I knew to prevent robbing myself of future happiness. And that’s what I want for you--future happiness. Future happiness is possible! Even if you can’t see it yet, may just the idea of potential joy be enough to keep you here long enough to find it.
A Prayer for Those Living in Crisis
Crisis is so hard. It takes SO MUCH energy to navigate. The constant demand. The fear of the unknown. The need to pay such incredibly close attention. It’s exhausting. I got news yesterday that a friend from college, waiting for a liver transplant, just had her 6th liver fail. Six times she’s prepared and hoped and prayed and then nothing. Still waiting. Still praying. Still hoping.
Crisis is so hard. It takes SO MUCH energy to navigate. The constant demand. The fear of the unknown. The need to pay such incredibly close attention. It’s exhausting. I got news yesterday that a friend from college, waiting for a liver transplant, just had her 6th liver fail. Six times she’s prepared and hoped and prayed and then nothing. Still waiting. Still praying. Still hoping.
Another friend who is chronically ill just learned she needs yet another surgery, but that surgery has to wait until after the other surgeries. Then she broke her thumb and now she can’t open her prescriptions by herself. She lives alone.
My heart goes out to anyone in a crisis. I pray for you right now. This minute. I pray that you can keep the insanity outside of you and that somehow you can find some place of quiet inside of you. Despite the fear. Despite the craziness. Despite the exhaustion. I pray God comes to you in real ways that you can see and feel as you crawl beyond this instance.
But a special prayer for those in a dark season of constant crisis. Perpetual crisis is a whole other level of fear and responsibility and exhaustion. Your burden is great and my humble prayers for you know no words. I know this place. This place with no knowing. Everything grows quiet among the beeps and emergency, and pressures of the unknown that most are blessed to never experience.
I lived in constant crisis for years as my late husband faced multiple health crises and eventual death. Dozens and dozens of trips to the ER. Countless hospitalizations. I couldn’t tell people how bad it really was. Who wants to hire a coach or a speaker whose unstable life is crumbling before her very eyes? I had to keep working as we had to eat. Someone had to pay all these medical bills.
A medical diagnosis is a terrible thing, but most of them come with a known path—maybe a terrible one, but known. It’s an entirely different experience to realize I was not on any known path, where no one could help me, and I had no idea all of the ways this would cost me.
Only after years of rest could I start to see the toll of the constant vigilance and care and struggle to survive. I paint it out now. I catch glimpses of that trauma in my art and in my memory and physical triggers and I start to see and remember. It’s so big I can’t take it all in at any given moment, but I can see it better than I could before.
My prayers are for you—you who share in this season of perpetual crisis. May you find space in the between the hard. May you find the small ephemeral blessing in each moment and find ways to abide there. May you find a deep well of faith. I hold that space with you right now in my prayers and in my paint…until you can find it for yourself.
Being Brave
It’s a fresh new year. Maybe you find yourself in this new year with an entirely new life. Maybe you got kicked out of your old life – divorce, death of a loved one, loss of a job or career. It feels terrible. Everything hurts and feels unfamiliar. You need recovery time for sure, but that FIRST year is a tough one. All your comforts and all your habits are up for grabs. They don’t necessarily work anymore or maybe they just don’t feel good because they remind you of what you don’t have.
It’s a fresh new year. Maybe you find yourself in this new year with an entirely new life. Maybe you got kicked out of your old life – divorce, death of a loved one, loss of a job or career. It feels terrible. Everything hurts and feels unfamiliar. You need recovery time for sure, but that FIRST year is a tough one. All your comforts and all your habits are up for grabs. They don’t necessarily work anymore or maybe they just don’t feel good because they remind you of what you don’t have.
My first year after my late husband died, I decided I needed a good ole dose of feeling brave. I needed to practice it. The first thing I did was figure out what would qualify. What would make me feel brave? Initially, I didn’t even know how to answer that. Practicing being brave was a new idea to me. I’d never tried before. This little game wasn’t so fun. It didn’t feel good right off, but I stuck to my quest. I didn’t realize that it might make me feel good about myself at a time when I spent so much time feeling shaky, weak, and helpless. It shifted my perspective from focusing entirely on my loss into one of (reluctant) exploration or inquiry. Maybe I could fuel myself forward in this life I didn’t want by practicing feeling brave?
It made me feel brave to opt out of our family holiday traditions. I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas on my own. I sat down and wrote 19 letters of love to friends on Christmas Eve and sent them all at midnight. It was the most Christmasy thing I’d ever done! It felt brave to choose what I needed over what everyone wanted for me or maybe wanted from me.
Being brave was also going home to an empty house. The pit in my stomach eventually cued me into the fact that I needed to change the energy in that space. I started to try and figure out what would make me feel comfort there. The old space was clearly haunted by my old life. Bringing nature inside the house felt good. Rearranging the bedroom felt good. Getting rid of some furniture and thrifting for some new pieces felt good. I painted all the walls by myself. I rented half my house to someone else. It felt brave to make those changes. It felt a little like I was erasing my old life too, but more like I was trying to find a way to live in this new life.
Painting my walls led to me taking an art class and painting canvases. I got more serious about my art which had languished for years. I was too busy before to consider painting, but once my life got blown up, painting a canvas made me feel brave in a weird and unexpected way. Facing an empty canvas and putting my marks on that surface. Self-expression felt good.
Eventually, pursuing what made me feel some sense of bravery somehow made a path to my new life. It gave me some sense of control and brought a small level of meaning to this hard season and made me feel better about myself at a time when I could hardly recognize myself. Being brave gave me what I needed to build a new life of beauty and art. Today, I still practice bravery through my painting explorations.
If this new year is forcing you into a new life or a new identity, I encourage you to think about small things you can do that will make you feel courageous. Courage to be brave will lead you to a full heart with a full life, you see. I pray courage for you, dear friend. Tell me what you’re practicing to feel brave.
In the Darkness of This Season
I spent some of my fall gathering good sticks and pinecones, milkweed pods, bird and wasp nests, dried sunflower heads, driftwood, and other bits of nature to live with us in our home. I filled my Christmas tree and decorations with it. I will keep some of those special little treasures in the house through my wintering.
I spent some of my fall gathering good sticks and pinecones, milkweed pods, bird and wasp nests, dried sunflower heads, driftwood, and other bits of nature to live with us in our home. I filled my Christmas tree and decorations with it. I will keep some of those special little treasures in the house through my wintering.
Preparing for the holidays starts early for me so I can indulge in the joy of the season. And this year, I pared it all down. Fewer gifts. Fewer activities. Less prep. We did some simple hosting. Friends over for appetizers and treats and a good conversation. Celebrating our relationships. We thought about what relationships we wanted to grow and explore, where our energy brought joy, and where it was reciprocated.
I think about the same in my art. What did I discover in my art practice that filled me with joy? Where do I want to go with my practice? What to explore next. This has become a celebration ritual that is deeply important to fuel me with the creative energy I need to keep going.
Then we turned in for the quiet, early darkness. I crave the cozy. Dozens of candles came out with the thick blankets and hot drinks. More sleep. More books. That rest births a special energy that urges me to dig in. Not in a hurried frantic way, but in a thoughtful, more purposeful sort of way. I've been dreaming big dreams for this year and I can't wait to bring them to life and share them with you.
I work in alignment with the seasons. I'm currently painting the last 6-8 paintings for my book of poetry and paintings I plan to launch in the Fall of 2024. I've been working on that book off and on for the last almost 5 years. It will take more work to bring it to fruition, but the creating phase of that project is nearly over. Then I will focus on design and publishing tasks so I can finally bring that entire experience to you.
I'm also planning my next series of paintings for this year. It's early seed work. It's a restful time with focused action. I love the feeling of productivity without all the rush. Some people have seasonal depression, and I've struggled with that in the past myself. I'm wondering if my creativity is the best antidote for chasing away any blues that may come with all the winter greys. Getting outside. The contrast of birch trees against an evergreen grove. The soft blended grays of lake and sky. The special quiet of deep snow and days of sparkling ice. All lovely gifts for me. All fodder that never ceases to surprise me as it works its way into my paintings.
You have loved me through so much and I'm finally in a season where I can finally share more. I want to explore where my faith, nature, art, and beauty have come together for me. This year I want to share more of my thoughts with you, more of my paintings. I can offer you a greater view into my process and my life. I want a deeper connection with you. It's time.