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.

The Smiling Eyes Project

A few years ago, I was surrounded by artists at a group dinner in Southern Tennessee.

The dinner was part of a retreat led by my mentor, Lori Putnam. We'd spent the day painting en plein air at a beautiful old barn that was being restored.

The gentleman restoring the barn, who I'd had a wonderful chat with earlier in the day, showed up at dinner with a sign he'd made on reclaimed wood. The sign read:

A smile is the prettiest thing you can wear.

Years later, the saying from that sign has stuck with me.

It confirmed what I have always known: A single smile can be a game changer; a day maker.

In one smile, we can communicate so much:

Hello!

I see you.

You are appreciated.

You are not alone.

You are loved.

It's a lot of pressure to put on one form of body language, and yet a smile has proven time and again that it's up to the task.

For the last year, though, smiles everywhere have been covered by masks. And will be for the foreseeable future.

A necessity, to be certain. And. Concealed smiles have led to even more disruption to another necessity in our lives: Connection.

This disruption, though, simply presents a challenge for us: To become more aware of how we spread the energy of a smile; to get clever in how we connect not just with our loved ones, but with strangers we pass on the street or at the grocery store.

And the good news is, this challenge is one that's easy to conquer, because...

We can carry the energy of our smiles through our eyes.

Masked or not, when we smile, our eyes can't help but communicate the silent energy that our lips activate.

Ironically, at a time when odds are against us in forging connections, I've been finding deeper connection by paying attention to people's eyes in a way I didn't have to before.

I've been calling it The Smiling Eyes Project in my own mind.

And it's time I brought that Project to life. But I need your help.

I've posted the above photo of my smiling eyes on my Facebook page. I'm hoping you'll do the same.

Visit me there, and comment on the thread with a photo of your masked face + smiling eyes. Add your picture by April 1, when I'll do a drawing for a free painting.

One year ago, we were at the very beginning of a major shift in our lives. Fear and uncertainty reigned.

And while we still have to be vigilant in how we interact, today we are gifted with the awareness that there are so many more ways to connect with people than we previously thought.

Just this morning, I pulled The Angel of Love from my oracle cards. It read: The Angel of Love is smiling on you and forging connections in the energetic world.

We may not be able to shake hands. Or hug. Or have someone see how our lips are curling up into a smile.

But that's not to say we can't forge genuine connections in this energetic world.

Keep smiling. Your eyes won't be able to hide it.

It's needed more than ever. And the people receiving your energy won't be able to deny it.

A creative way to live: One day at a time

Since the beginning of this pandemic, life has turned from being something we could plan for — trips, events, gatherings — to something completely unpredictable.

The only way to live (with any semblance of sanity) has been to take things one day at a time.

It's been exhausting. It's been uncertain. It's been tumultuous.

And.

As I embarked upon the annual January Strada Challenge, where artists around the world work on one painting for each day of January, I remembered that this way of living — one day at a time — can actually be a beautiful way to approach creativity and meaning in our lives.

On January 1, I set up my easel and did the first of my paintings. Then, each day throughout January, I arranged tiny vignettes made up of treasures from around my home — a Georgia O'Keefe hat I got from my son; snow shoes and a winter coat from my dad; my mom's strawberry shortcake recipe; dried flowers from my daughter's wedding — bathing them in light where I could find it, and painted.

One painting at a time. 31 paintings in 31 days.

Every day was a fresh start. A chance to continue the creative vibes I'd carried the day before or to let myself veer down a completely different path.

As I got started each day, it reminded me that taking things one day at a time can serve as more than a survival tactic for when things are in chaos.

Yes, in times of chaos, this approach helps us focus on the near future; what's within our control.

And...in times of both chaos and thriving, taking things one day at a time helps us wake each day with a renewed sense of meaning, opening ourselves up to greater creativity. Letting us feel into whatever that day brings — good or bad — and knowing that tomorrow is an opportunity to start anew.

The one day at time approach gives us the structure we need to enable flexibility; the constraint we need to breed creativity.

Had I set out to paint every day without the structure of the Strada Challenge surrounding me, I'm not sure I would've stuck with it.

But with one parameter: Create one plein air painting each day for the month of January, I could focus on what I'd create today, with freedom to roam within that.

That structure gave me a bit of predictability amongst a whole heck of a lot of unpredictability.

We lost all normal senses of structure in this pandemic. But when we approach things one day at a time, we can seek what's within our control and know that we have today. We have creativity and lightness and kindness today.

And when we wake tomorrow, we can renew that.

One day at a time.

This year's word (and challenge): Pause

I was taking a walk around my neighborhood on a quiet, cold winter morning at the beginning of this new year when my word of the year came to me:

Pause.

I stopped, took a deep breath, and let myself soak in the serenity of my surroundings. And I vowed that I would do more of just that this year.

After the challenges of the past year and the relentless guarantee of uncertainty in our future, we owe it to ourselves to pause. To find the magic in moments. To realize the gifts that still come our way, even in tumultuous times.

Pause is more than just a guiding principle for me this year, though.

It's a challenge.

I'll be the first to admit: In both my relationships and my business, I'm a doer. I respond quickly. I work fast.

I'm driven by to-do lists, and I find great satisfaction in crossing tasks off.

Beyond that, I also find great discomfort in what Brené Brown calls the "messy middle." I prefer to have things resolved.

In other words, rather than embracing the pause, my natural inclination is — and has always been — to react.

This hasn't always worked well for me.

Yes, I've built a reputation as a responsive business owner; a reliable friend; a responsible parent.

And.

When I don't take time to pause and let myself feel the feelings that arise, I often respond in a way that doesn't align with who I am and how I want to show up for others.

When I don't pause, fear reacts first.

A fear of letting others down. A fear of sitting in the uncertainty of something not being resolved. A fear of what my feelings will tell me if I actually take the time to listen.

But when I accept the challenge and make space for a pause, I can respond from a place of solid ground. I can reply with greater thoughtfulness. I can act with greater integrity.

Even when the pause means getting uncomfortable. Even when it feels like there's no time.

The pandemic has dialed down the world in so many ways, and turned it up in others. In pausing, we can consider what's really important.

Pause before hitting send. Pause before making a decision. Pause to feel; to ponder; to breathe. The to-do list will be there tomorrow.

Make sure pausing is on it.

—

P.S. Sometimes I pull over in the car just to stare at the wide open spaces that surround me in the Finger Lakes. I give my gratitude to the winter snow; the spring flowers; the green hills of summer; the continuously changing colors of autumn. If I rush by, I miss it — and it's never quite the same when I return. It reminds me of a question I asked last summer: What's possible if we just slow down?

Erasing lines + renewing wonder

Every Christmas Eve growing up, my father would surprise my sister and I with a brand new pack of crayons and a fresh coloring book. To me, this epitomized the spirit of the holiday season.

I would excitedly (but oh-so-carefully) dive into that pack of crayons and grace the pages of my new coloring book, with growing anticipation of what might be under the tree the next day.

Year after year, I asked Santa for the same: Art kits. 

From batik painting to macrame starters; latch-hook rugs to pot holder looms; Dip-A-Flower kits to love beads (this was the '60s and '70s, remember), I had them all. Oh — and I can't forget gravel art — a kit where I glued tiny gravel stones to a board to form a peacock.

(My poor mother. She had to find places to display all of this handiwork...)

Despite my Christmas list looking nearly the same every year, I never tired of it. I loved the exploratory nature of each kit and project within; how each one used different materials and gave me ways to creatively approach art that I wouldn't otherwise have thought of.

Fast forward to high school, where I was incredibly fortunate to be in one of the best art programs in the country, under the guidance of the masterful Dick Trick.

It was there that the debate began — craft vs. art?

Even though I still took pleasure in things like knitting — at the time, decidedly a craft in the minds of my peers and I — I had made up my mind then and there that I would be an artist. I would be a painter. My work would be serious; sophisticated; skillful.

My art education in high school pushed me in ways I cannot express proper gratitude for.

And, yet...the seriousness; the sophistication it instilled in me both subconsciously and very unintentionally transpired into not allowing myself to dabble with things that might not directly align with my path to becoming a painter; a "true" artist.

I failed to see that I wasn't actually delineating between a craft and art. What I can see now is that I was drawing a line between exploration/play and sophistication/skill.

An unnecessary line.

This line has, unfortunately, limited my creativity. Even as I hone my skills and become a more experienced painter, every once in a while that Christmas Eve Cindy — the one full of excitement; anticipation; imagination — comes back to visit me, asking me this:

How can I bring the freedom of childhood exploration to my art? How can I approach it with a renewed sense of wonder? How can I experiment, and bring more play into my days?

Just while writing this, I created a project for myself: This week, I'll bring an entire painting to life without using a brush. I'll use only sticks and natural materials I can find outdoors.

Just as I dreamt up this idea, I felt that flutter again. The joy that comes with rediscovering wonder; the excitement that comes with allowing myself to play.

If I can give myself time each day and week to play; to rebel with paints, shapes, light, materials, and more, I know I can push myself beyond the limitations I've set for myself. I know I can redefine what an artist is, in my own mind. I know I can find more of who I am inside.

It makes me wonder: What lines have you drawn for yourself — and how can you erase them to let yourself play? Not just now, in this holiday season where nostalgia amplifies; but each and every day and week?

Because what is art without wonder? And what is life without excitement?

P.S. As it turns out, this is a lesson I teach myself over and over again in adulthood: That childlike exploration is the path and play tends to reveal magnificent answers.

The power of intention

If 2020 has taught us anything, it's this: We can only control what we can control.

In fact, recognizing what's within my control and what isn't has been a big part of maintaining as much sanity as possible as we've navigated such tumultuous, uncertain times.

Last week, as I read through my advanced copy of Christine Kane's new book, The Soul-Sourced Entrepreneur, I was reminded of one of the most powerful things I have in my toolbox, when it comes to things I can control...

My intentions.

I first learned about the power of intention and the practice of intention setting as I sat amongst hundreds of women at a Christine Kane retreat in Atlanta nearly 10 years ago.

I had gone from a corporate designer for Hefty to owning a successful design business, working with clients on design that marketed everything from wine to hotels and dog food to lightbulbs, and while I was empowered, I was exhausted.

I walked into that retreat not knowing how I could keep going on.

Within hours, my entire viewpoint had shifted...

And it had everything to do with the power of intention.

As someone who takes interest in so many different things, people, and ideas, my direction can become scattered and convoluted — and that's precisely where I found myself when I hit that breaking point, 10 years ago.

I had had very little formal business training, and was figuring out self-employment as I went. As I explored many different paths and fell down many different rabbit holes, I burnt myself out.

It was at that retreat that I learned how to come back to center — by staying conscious of what my intention was at the current moment, and whether or not my actions were getting me closer to that intention.

Intention setting has since become a powerful lifeline to my days, my weeks, and now, my years, helping me maintain clarity no matter how big or small my intention is.

Setting intentions helped me define my ideal design client: Businesses within the travel & tourism industry.

Setting intentions helped me bring painting back into the forefront of my life, focusing on using my art to bring light to my community and change the world.

Setting intentions gave me the confidence and ability to ask for help, to stay in my zone of genius; to form a team and let others do what they do best.

Setting intentions brought me to the South of France, surrounded by other artists as we learned the intricacies of painting plein air with my now artistic mentor, Lori Putnam.

Recognizing the power of intention, and persistently practicing the setting of intentions has changed my life.

As I've said before, none of us can know what's ahead, but focusing on our intentions can keep us present, standing in what we can control.

I needed to be reminded of this as we head into the winter of this devastating pandemic. Set your (imperfect) intentions. Let yourself discover what might be possible as we close out 2020 and embark upon a new year.

Intentions aren't rules. They are guideposts. Let yours light your path.

---

P.S. I’m running a special in the shop from now until the end of 2020: All original paintings are 25% off. No limit. Light your walls with a painting, or gift one for someone you love. Just use the code INTENTION to see your discount auto-applied -- and pick up or delivery is free in the Rochester, NY region!

The synergistic magic of passions intersecting

A few years ago, I came across the term "multipotentialite" — a term used to describe people who display aptitudes across multiple disciplines, popularized by Emilie Wapnick at Puttylike. In her words, a multipotentialite is someone with many interests and creative pursuits.

It put into perspective what I'd felt for so long — that design was my career; painting, my calling; travel, my schooling; women's rights, my stake in the ground.

For years, I'd kept each of them mostly separate. I designed for local tourism bureaus, I traveled, I painted, and I stood up for women's rights when and where I could; but there was always a sense of compartmentalization that didn't quite feel...right.

And yet, I approached each with such impassioned fervor that it seemed impossible to give any up. Even more so, it became my goal to somehow bring them all together as much as I could.

Then, around this time last year, I was asked to not only design the official visitors guide for Seneca County, NY...but to commission a painting of the historic meeting between Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton that could be used on the cover.

For me, this was a pivotal moment. One where I could bring all of these interests, aptitudes, and passions together as I flexed my design muscles in creating a visitors guide that would promote travel to our beautiful Finger Lakes region, honored the women that changed the course of history across the country from their base in Seneca County, and allowed me to express the energy of that moment in a painting on the cover.

In that convergence of design, painting, travel, and women's rights, I felt the synergistic magic of passions intersecting; when we can live, work, and play in our zone of genius.

Fortunately, these opportunities to live in that synergistic magic seem to be more frequent these days.

In April, I kicked off my Travel Through Art: Finger Lakes video series, where I choose a destination and record a time lapse video of me painting a scene from it, then turn it into a 1ish minute video.

In September, I had the opportunity to host a "Meet & Paint" event for Visit Finger Lakes where 13 meeting planners from across the country met virtually as I walked them through the creation of a plein-air style painting from the comfort of their own backyards.

And earlier this month, the National Women’s Hall of Fame featured photos of my trip to paint there on their Facebook page. 

More and more, I see my passions intersecting, and the magic that makes me feel is only akin to the magic that makes it happen: An unrelenting dedication to stoking each of the fires.

While I know I can’t always be working at that perfect intersection of all of my passions, I know I can appreciate each of them for the light they bring to my soul. 

For my fellow multipotentialites out there: I urge you to keep pursuing your passions; to remember that it's not all or nothing, but instead, maybe it's a little bit of everything you love.

Now more than ever, we need to spend as much time as we can in our zone of genius, bringing light to our souls, and feeling the magic that only we can create for ourselves as our passions intersect.

Creating a legacy (and letting go)

It's come to my attention that the legacy I seek to create with my life is actually quite simple: I wish to be loved, and for everyone I love to know exactly how much I love them.

If that's what I leave this Earth having cultivated, I would be quite content.

Recognizing that giving and receiving love is my true wish for my legacy has freed me up to approach so many other things in my life — my art, my design, my home — with levity.

I came to this realization much like I come to many of my revelations: Through conversations not just with others, but with myself...

In my journals.

I began keeping a journal in the 7th grade, when I was a newly-minted public school student, experiencing the dramatic shift from the bubble of private Catholic school to the vastness of the new student body before me.

My English teacher, Lynne Knight, a celebrated poet, gave us an assignment: Start a journal. Write about our feelings, stories, and what we were going through.

So I did. And I never stopped.

In that one assignment, she changed the trajectory of my life, likely without even realizing it.

It was then that I started not just capturing memories, but processing myriad emotions and experiences as I grew.

Having my journal to turn to has helped me get through sadness, grief, worry, and fear. It's seen me through various forms of heartbreak. It's been the place to sort out confusion, anxiety, and gratitude during COVID. It's been my confidante in good times and bad, through excitement and vulnerability.

And, as I began a new decade of life this past April, it was my journal that helped me slow down, recognize what's most important, and focus on living out my love-centered legacy.

I haven't been perfect in the habit of journaling throughout the years, and it's taken on various forms as my life shifted, but I'm not quite sure what I'd do without it.

And...I'm also ready to let it all burn.

A while ago, I read this article from Danielle LaPorte. In it, she shares how she burned years of old journals, literally watching them go up in smoke.

When I read that, my stomach danced a bit — both with excitement and trepidation.

I have boxes upon boxes of old journals. They take up space. They likely won't be wanted by my children when I'm no longer here.

And, they've served their purpose in being the place where I process.

I'm excited at the prospect of lighting them all up. They're mine to burn. I have that agency; that power.

Yet I worry — these are words I could never write again. They were captured in their purest form; at the time these memories were being formed. Maybe there's something in there that could help someone else. Maybe my words about certain experiences like my childhood sexual assault would help another child who's suffering the same.

And. Maybe it's holding me back from other ways to do the same.

Life is finite. Our legacy is not. If mine is to love and be loved, I have my journals to thank for giving me the space to grow into myself and process that which can only be fully explored in conversation with myself. 

Now, I can exercise my power in letting them go, making way for the present to take up the space I wish it to.

As Danielle points out: "There are archivists. And there are burners. It’s a very personal matter. To keep, to torch…it’s your free will. But I can tell you this: Traveling lighter helps me shine brighter."

What’s possible if we just slow down?

I have an invite for you this month: Slow down.

"Really, Cindy?," you might be thinking. “Haven't we all been forced to slow down in ways we didn't exactly want to since this pandemic spread at the start of 2020?”

Yes. And...

Despite not being able to socialize, work, or play like we might've expected this year, I have a feeling many of us have let the anxiety of uncertainty take its toll on us. Our constant worrying, information seeking, and pushing to do more has likely been anything short of taking a breather.

After all, one of the hardest things to do is to just be.

To sit still.

To do nothing.

It pulls at everything we know; our natural inclination to tie our productivity to our self-worth; our drive to do, do, do.

Especially when we're faced with such uncertainty. If we slow down, then what happens?

Last month, I found solace in the slow down when I paused in my painting and found the color in the shadows.

Two years ago around this same time, I took comfort in the slow down when I paused to really think about what is enough.

So maybe socializing, work, and play haven't been normal — and maybe there's still a lot to figure out as the season turns next month, but for now?

Slow down. Pause. Just be.

Let the feelings flow: The grieving for what's been missed. The fear of what's to come. The guilt over boundaries you've had to enforce.

And.

Celebrate yourself.

You've made it nearly 6 months through a pandemic. Your head is still on your shoulders. And though we might not know what's to come, when we take a minute to pause and let the fear pass, we can open our minds to what's possible.

—

P.S. I've had the incredible opportunity to showcase my paintings in not just one, but two places, this summer. While the openings + exhibits haven't been conventional, it comes with its perks — you can see the shows online! I hope you can pause, grab a cup of something delicious, and enjoy.

Until August 16: The Art Gallery at Cobblestone

Until September 6: The Spirit of Plein Air Exhibit at Pat Rini Rohrer Gallery

Finding color in the shadows

A few weeks ago, I packed up my easel and paints, grabbed my trusty hat, and headed outdoors to paint en plein air for the first time in what felt like forever.

I set my easel up under the trees, ran through my tried-and-true motions of making sure things were in place so I could get into my flow...then I paused.

I took a deep breath in, feeling the fresh air filling my lungs.

I quieted my thoughts and heard only the birds singing.

I caught a bunny hopping by out of the corner of my eye one minute, then saw the glistening droplets of water left over from the morning dew on the leaves the next.

As I began painting, fully immersed in this world I've missed so much during winter, the spring rains, and the ongoing pandemic, I found something even more amazing:

I discovered color in the shadows.

Having been confined indoors for months on end as the 2020 calendar year progressed, I turned to painting from photos I'd taken outdoors, a trusty practice that has served me well in the past.

I still created, but there was something missing. My senses weren't filled with the smells and sounds of the outdoors. My eye couldn't easily detect the depth and detail of the scene that I can when I'm standing amongst it. My mind couldn't quiet the thoughts that undoubtedly take over when I'm not fully engaged.

Photos, while a necessary enabler for painting year round, are flat. The feelings elicited from the scene are a heck of a lot harder to come by. The shadows are shallow.

Upon standing in the scene again and discovering the colors in the shadows, a light within me turned back on.

For the last few months — and perhaps even more so right now — it feels a lot like we're living in the shallow shadows.

Weeks of quarantine turned into months.

Inhumane acts of racial injustice came to the forefront, highlighting a systemic reality those of us who have white privilege haven't had to examine for far too long.

The economy started opening back up, but the pandemic hasn't decreased in its pervasiveness.

In short, uncertainty reigns. And for me, the uncertainty of these particular days has lent itself to a greater sense of anxiety and sadness than ever before.

At the beginning of the pandemic, my Irish roots shown through: I put my metaphorical boots on, did my best to trudge through the mud, and set my aims on "saving" the world (in my small ways).

It worked for a while, but as things have worn on, I've felt many moments of powerlessness.

In these moments of darkness; of anxiety; of sadness, there's only one thing I can do: Focus on being present.

For me, that's stepping outside to immerse myself in the scenes I so love to paint. It's taking note of the details that are so easy to miss. It's expanding my awareness and finding the color in the shadows, and, most importantly, forfeiting control.

None of us can know what's ahead.

But if we can pause and truly be present in the moment, we have a much better chance of seeing the color and depth we desperately need in our present shadows.

The golden rule still stands

This past weekend, I was planting herbs at my parents house.

I was knelt down on their concrete patio, digging the holes and delicately dropping the herbs in when my 86-year old father came out with a towel and gently said, "Here, put this under your knees. You shouldn't be kneeling on that hard concrete."

That simple act of empathy and kindness is still bringing a tear to my eye, days later.

As myself and so many people I know are considering what we can do to impact change in this country, I keep coming back to one seemingly simple idea:

Treat others as you wish to be treated.

Each day, moment by moment, in every role we play, we have the opportunity to dole out simple acts of kindness that can sincerely touch someone else's heart.

It's as simple as that.

And, it's layered.

The United States and the world are shattering. That's the feeling, and very much the reality. We've all been feeling the pain, the isolation, and the devastation of the Coronavirus over the last few months.

Now, we're facing the reality of the inhumane acts of racial injustice that happen — and have been happening for a long, long time — without nearly enough people speaking up about them.

There is systemic racial inequity at the root of these inhumane acts, and the protests that are ensuing. These roots run deep.

You and I might not be the ones consciously creating these heinous acts. But if we see something, we need to stand together and say something.

We need to be able to stand up for our fellow human beings.

We may not be able to solve centuries of true injustice overnight, but we can take steps in our day-to-day interaction with others. We can invoke change at home, and in our communities.

Regardless of who they are, each and every person that surrounds you; me; us...they are a human being.

We need to treat them as such.

We need to treat others how we wish to be treated.

Let's create change.

—

P.S. Last month, I gave you a simple way to spread hope. This month, I implore you to use the same simple act to spread kindness: Send a card. I've made another one you can print off to mail here.

Hope is contagious

Every morning, a friend of mine who lives on Canandaigua Lake wakes before dawn, sets up his camera, and, when the time is just right, snaps a picture of the sunrise. Then, he shares that picture with his family and friends on Facebook.

He's made countless people smile with these photos...the people who've commented to say so, as well as those who see it, smile quietly to themselves, and keep going on with their day.

It's a simple practice, with a big return: Each day, he gives everyone who sees his sunrise photo a bit of hope.

Hope is contagious

Amongst the fear, the uncertainty, and the loss that's being experienced around the world right now, there is something else going on:

An incredible outpouring of people giving.

In obvious ways: The doctors and nurses showing up on the frontlines, caring for the ill. The teachers quickly pivoting their plans to make sure kiddos can learn from home — and the parents making it happen, amongst other obligations. The grocery store employees showing up every day to keep shelves stocked and lines running.

And in the not-so-obvious ways: My friend who posts the sunrise picture each morning. Another friend of mine who's doing a morning art practice on Facebook Live for all to watch. Yet another friend who's lighting up mailboxes with notes from her toddler daughter.

Giving doesn't come without a cost — those who give get tired. It's hard work. It can be overwhelming. It can be draining, particularly if we haven't given enough to ourselves, first.

And yet...

Giving replenishes the reserves

When we view the cost of giving as an investment — an investment in the hope that will come back to us when we give — it's well worth it.

When the communities stop what they're doing, throw open the windows, and salute healthcare workers at 7 p.m. each night, we know there's hope.

When a pre-med student immediately mobilizes an army of people to become "Shopping Angels", we know there's hope.

When public figures like Oprah, Lebron James, and President and Michelle Obama organize virtual commencements to celebrate the graduating class of 2020 across the nation, we know there's hope.

Giving inspires love. It inspires compassion. It inspires gratitude.

And most of all, it replenishes hope.

We don't all have medical training. Or platforms of thousands of people. Or millions in the bank to donate.

But we do all have gifts to share with others.

Your presence is a gift. Your gratitude is a gift. Your creativity is a gift.

Every time you give, you give hope.

And you get hope, in return.

—

P.S. A simple way to spread hope: Send a card. I've made one you can print off to mail here.