What’s calling you?

What's calling you?

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was fascinating to me, how it all connected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The feeling of home

The feeling of home

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stories held in the landscapes.

The history displayed in the architecture.

The essence of pure life carried on in the citizens.

It felt like home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May today there be peace within.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have infinite possibilities.

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

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

Every moment is magic. Are you ready for it?

Every moment is magic. Are you ready for it?

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slow down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Art lives in my bones.

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

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

The angels and teachers appear when the student is ready.

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

Are you?

Dandelion seeds and the magic of dreams

Dandelion seeds and the magic of dreams

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I'm 64

When I'm 64

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I know my true healing power comes through art.

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

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

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

Art is healing.

Creativity is magic.

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

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

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

Release

Release

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t wait for the path to appear

Don't wait for the path to appear

Cindy Harris

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

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

Whew, how’s that for a start?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you hear the bells ring…

When you hear the bells ring...

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

In her words:

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it was — the bells ringing.

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

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

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

Dear friends…

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

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

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

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

Happy holidays, from my home to yours. 💛

We can all be the light

We can all be the light

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know you can, too.

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

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

This world will be an infinitely better place.

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

I am grateful for today

I am grateful for today

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

❤️  I am goodness. I am love.

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

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

❤️  I radiate calm, patience, and serenity.

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

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

I appreciate you.

The gift of listening

The gift of listening

Cindy Harris

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want the same for you.

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

Water, wind, and the power of painting

Water, wind, and the power of painting

Cindy Harris

We were sitting on the porch of our cabin in the Adirondacks last week when the sky grew dark and the wind started to pick up.

My phone had pinged me earlier with a tornado warning for the area, but it could not have prepared me for what came next.

The lightning struck, followed by booms of thunder that shook the ground. Tucked between huge pines, we took cover inside as the rain started pounding down.

Alongside the fear that crept in as I realized the power of the storm was an extraordinary amount of awe at what nature is capable of.

Just days before, I was in Canandaigua, painting a scene of water lilies under a bridge. It was sweet. Quiet. Serene.

Like so many of the landscapes I’ve painted, the scene I was capturing was, in a word, healing.

The contrast of that scene to the one I was in the middle of on my porch in the Adirondacks was, to me, the epitome of nature showing its many sides.

There’s the healing side — the one that provides respite, fulfillment, and connection.

And then there’s the power side — the one that reminds us of the relentlessness of water, the capacity of clouds, and the strength of wind.

The tornado did touch down about 20 miles from where we were. We lost power and cell phone reception, and we had front row seats to the lake as the water level rose about 5 inches.

I didn’t sleep much that night. When I woke from what little sleep I did get the next morning, I couldn’t stop thinking of the power that nature holds, and how I could express the intensity of that power — and the feelings it conveys — in my paintings.

I gathered my easel and supplies just hours later and ventured to a familiar spot, Singing Waters, to paint with my friend Meg.

The day after that ruckus-making storm, there were no gentle, singing waters here.

Instead, there was a powerful whoosh of root-beer colored water and foam rushing over the rocks. It was anything but quiet. It was roaring.

We set up quickly as there was still a threat of rain in the air, and I began mixing colors to match the scene — not the pretty blues of a quiet stream or the glinting golds of the sun reflecting off the lakes that I’m used to painting.

This was different. It wasn’t necessarily pretty. It was powerful.

What I captured on the canvas that day was quick and scrappy, but what I captured in my body and my soul was the feeling of the entire experience — the coursing of the blood in my veins as I felt the rushing waters; the feelings of change and growth that penetrated my heart as I felt the power of the wind; the inspiration and drive I felt pulsing through my hands as I furiously painted.

As I sit here writing this this morning back at my home in Bloomfield, there’s a light rain. It’s quiet, and I can hear the birds.

Nature. It’s healing, and it’s destructive. It’s fulfilling, and it’s draining. It’s pretty AND it’s powerful.

It is the very essence of humanity; of the women who create that humanity.

Walt Whitman said it, but between women and nature, we embody it: We contain multitudes.

In Colorado in May, it hit me just how vast mountains could be. During the storm in the Adirondacks last week, it hit me just how powerful nature could be.

And while my painting up to this point has been a practice in capturing the light and letting the strokes heal myself and those who buy and take in my art, it hit me just this week that my painting can also hold power.

Through painting, I can express the feelings that my body cannot contain any longer. I can tell stories that go beyond the serene.

Like the rushing waters, my paintings can roar. We, as women, as humans, can roar.

We can use our power, for good.

Holding on to your Self

Holding on to your Self

Cindy Harris

In a recent episode of We Can Do Hard Things, Glennon Doyle did a 1:1 interview with writer Maggie Smith, where they spoke about betrayal, the truth, and reclaiming ourselves in a world that encourages the shaming of women who dare to tell their stories.

As I became enthralled with Maggie’s story, what struck deep down in my core was the fact that she kept writing throughout every curveball she faced in order to hold on to who she is.

Earlier this month, I was standing amongst dozens of my high school classmates from Lowville Academy as we gathered for our 45th class reunion.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

Because as I was moving my way amongst the groups of friends I made in the ‘70s, I was flooded with the feelings and memories of being high school Cindy…

A girl who was energized by the vastness of what was spread out in front of her, despite having no idea where she was going.

A girl who dressed how she wanted to dress, made friends with everyone, and listened to herself, first.

A girl who was supported and encouraged by her family, her teachers, and her friends to open doors, explore just for the fun of it, and create without regard for outcome.

Though everyone’s high school experience is different, mine was one of authenticity, of freedom, and of genuine self-expression.

In the years that followed, that girl grew, and she shifted.

I became the first person in my family to go to college, and while my parents fully supported me becoming an artist, I found myself on a path conforming to what might be more amenable to a patriarchal, capitalist society, one where a salary is necessary and there’s a family to support.

It was in those years where I turned to studying graphic design, working for a corporation, and then eventually starting my own business, that I found myself molding into someone out to “make a living”, desperately seeking to please others above gratifying my own creative self, and far too often listening to other peoples’ advice about what was “best” for me.

I am extremely grateful for and proud of the path I took; the home I’ve contributed to; the family I’ve raised.

And. During those years, while I didn’t necessarily lose who I was, I did allow her to sink into the background.

She came out in glimpses: In the eclectic way I’ve decorated my home; in the diverse relationships with friends and mentors I’ve been blessed to be surrounded by; in the re-prioritization of painting in recent years.

But that high school Cindy — the one truly unafraid to bare her whole self? She’s mostly been hidden.

Being back at my high school reunion reminded me that she’s not too far gone, though. And that if I hold on tight to who I am, I can bring her back to the forefront.

I can create for myself and acknowledge that art is a generous gift to the world.

I can choose rest despite living in a culture that is constantly encouraging hustle.

I can awaken the wildness that’s been tamed over the years.

Life is not without responsibility. And yet, we don’t have to abandon ourselves in an attempt to fit into a society that largely diminishes creative pursuits.

When I consider now what’s “best” for me, I know exactly who to turn to to answer: High school Cindy.

When I hear her voice, I know it’s the truth. And I know that she is the person I will continue to hold on to as I seek to bring more light into the world.

That Rocky Mountain high

That Rocky Mountain high

Cindy Harris

I was standing behind my easel atop Rocky Mountain just a couple of weeks ago, when I heard my dad’s voice whisper in my ear, “What do you think of this, Cinc?”

(That’s what he used to call me.)

Chills washed over my body — the good kind.

After all, as I was holding my sweet father’s hand in the final moments before he passed, I voiced one request for him: “Please show me great painting spots.”

And here he was, doing just that.

It was one of our many afternoon escapades during PACE, the Plein Air Convention + Expo. After mornings filled with presentations and demos, we’d hop on a bus that transported us to a beautiful location, where we were free to roam and paint until we were picked up a few hours later.

From the moment I walked into the Westin Westminster upon my arrival at PACE, there was a magical energy in the air.

From beginner to professional, close to 1,000 artists were gathering in this one majestic place for a week devoted solely to plein air painting.

For most of my painting journey, I’ve treated it as a relatively solitary activity. And time in solitude is necessary… to explore and experiment with your style; to find your voice.

And. The more I grow as a painter, the more I realize that painting thrives in community.

Not just any community…

A community of people who know the struggles of self-doubt. A community of people who are willing to be vulnerable. A community of people who, no matter their skill level or years of experience, are perpetually yearning to become a better painter.

I tried very hard for many years to find belonging as a painter.

And I have, through my mentorship + painting voyages with Lori Putnam, through my local studio, Pat Rini Rohrer Gallery, and with certain friends I can call on to paint with whenever the urge strikes. (Which is nearly always.)

And now here I was, swept away in the midst of a community I felt an immediate belonging to, at PACE.

Every artist that gave a presentation or demo on stage didn’t hide their nervousness; didn’t try to mask their vulnerability.

They showed up as the humans they are…

And gave me permission to be the artist who makes mistakes; who still has doubts; who is perpetually yearning to be a better painter.

More importantly, they validated the dream of high school-aged Cindy, who’s vision board at the time was simple: Have a painting in The Met.

For decades, I’ve held that dream in my heart, surrounded by (very loud) inner arguments of, “Who do you think you are?” and “Who are you to reach for this?”

And as each day passed at PACE, those arguments got quieter and the doubts dissipated.

What didn’t dissipate… in fact, what’s grown even stronger since returning home from Denver, is that Rocky Mountain high.

The one pushing me to keep setting my sights on the sky. To keep reaching beyond. To keep intentionally building the community I’ve strived for for so long:

One of vulnerability; of acceptance; of humanity. Void of ego; of arrogance; of judgment. One that values sharing; that teaches; that inspires.

Coming through the speakers of the hotel lobby upon my arrival at PACE was Take Me Home Country Roads by John Denver — the song I had played at my father’s funeral. Too coincidental to be coincidental.

By venturing to this place, by surrounding myself with these people, I’m coming home to myself. To my dreams.

And I will continue to carry that Rocky Mountain high with me as I keep reaching for the stars, lifting up the people around me as I go.

You belong here

You belong here

Cindy Harris

I’ll be honest: Typically I don’t write about what the future holds, because, well, you just never know what’s gonna happen.

But when I sat down to write this, I couldn’t help but let myself look forward.

And here’s what I see:

🌿 Me, stepping into a bigger arena… one I can’t even yet imagine the depths of.

🌿 More than 1,200 plein air artists, putting brush to canvas, feeding off of collective energy.

🌿 Mountains that stretch for miles, reminding me that I’m part of something much bigger than myself.

And here’s what I feel when I think about that:

✨ Energized, and ready to welcome in whatever presents itself.

✨ Confident, knowing that I do belong on a bigger stage.

✨ Grateful, for everything that’s led me to this place and everything that is still to come.

This is all top of mind for me as I excitedly pack my bags for next week’s trip to Denver. I’m heading there for PACE, the Plein Air Convention + Expo — the Woodstock of plein air painting.

It’s the 10th year of PACE, but the first time I’ll be attending.

With over 80 painters teaching and more than 1,200 people attending, we’ll be setting the record for the largest gathering of plein air painters in one place. (Thank you, Eric Rhodes, for making plein air more well known in the world!)

And as I envision myself there, among the mountains and my fellow artists who are deeply in love with painting just as I am, I can honestly say I feel a sincere sense of belonging.

I’m not just stepping into a bigger arena…

I’m walking into a stadium of my people; my artist family.

While I’m carefully selecting the supplies I’ll need to pack to capture the beauty of Golden, CO, the nooks of El Dorado Canyon State Park, the light in the Garden of the Gods, and the colors of Rocky Mountain State Park, I can tell you what I’m not spending time doing:

Arguing with the inner voice in my head, who, for years, had the audacity to tell me I’m “less than.”

This time? She’s rooting me on.

She’s reminding me that this is just the first of many grand experiences to come.

That the arena will keep expanding.

And not only am I ready for it all…

I belong here.

On letting the shine out

On letting the shine out

Cindy Harris

I was painting along the shore of Seneca Lake in New York’s Finger Lakes last week when I found myself absolutely mesmerized by the light and shadow, the way the lake sparkled, and the blossoming leaves of chartreuse playing out like a time lapse on the trees surrounding me.

The world was shining.

I felt myself taking it in like a sponge, while also feeling overcome with a desire that’s been building in me for a bit now:

The desire to let my own shine out.

I’m celebrating my birthday this month. Another turn around the sun, and another opportunity to be even more of who I am.

I’ve owned a fair amount of titles throughout my life: Daughter, sister, wife, graphic designer, mother, friend…

And I’ve spent years wondering how I can be everything to everyone and do all the things I want to do.

I am wildly blessed; I hold all of these titles and roles as deeply important.

And. The simple answer to my question of how I can be everything to everyone is this:

I can’t.

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Big Magic (and so much more), shares this question that has deeply inspired her over the years:

“What are you willing to give up to have the thing you keep pretending to want?”

I’ve known from the time I was a little girl, drawing pictures of flowers in my backyard, that I wanted to be an artist.

And while the titles and roles of daughter, sister, mother, wife, graphic designer, and friend are deeply important to me, the one that’s required the most courage for me to step into has been that of painter.

I’ve grappled with it for years, as I parented; as I led a 40-year graphic design career; as I told myself there would always be time later.

So what’s changing now?

I’m not pretending.

I’m not making my art secondary.

I’m putting myself first.

In this busy world, I can’t do it all anymore. I don’t think I really ever could, but I stayed on the hamster wheel as I attempted to keep up. And in doing so, I become a stressed person.

I don’t like that person; nobody else does, either.

As I enter a new year of life, it’s never felt more like the right time to step into my painting with gusto; to be the artist I’m meant to be; to let the world know who I am.

It means embracing vulnerability, standing in my power, and saying yes:

Saying yes to taking up space in my long-admired Plein Air Magazine.

Responding on a whim and getting spotlighted on Outdoor Painter.

Booking a ticket to Denver to attend Plein Air Convention and Expo (PACE) to not only see my mentor, Lori Putnam, speak, but to meet + paint with dozens of other artists I’ve only read about.

I am grateful for everything I’ve done, experienced, and learned in my years on this earth so far — it has all led me to where I am today.

And. I’m ready for the world to see me. I’m ready to allow good things to happen. I’m ready to remain a sponge, soaking up light and inspiration from the natural world; my magnificent grandchildren; the mentors and teachers in my life.

I’m ready to feel the fear and do it anyway. I’m ready to be the love I’ve felt for so long.

As I stare at the sparkling lake in front of me, I know I’m ready to let my own light shine out.

-----

P.S. Art is an act of generosity, and there’s no better time to make the world a better place than now.

The force behind we

The force behind we

Cindy Harris

I woke up this morning with the conversation from a recent episode of the We Can Do Hard Things podcast still ringing in my head.

The interview was with Sarah Polley, writer + director of Women Talking, a movie about Mennonite women coming together to make a choice in facing the cruelty they’ve been subject to.

In the conversation, the three hosts of the podcast talk with Sarah about the hard. They talk about art + activism. They talk about coming together.

As I think about what strength means to me on this International Women's Day during Women's History Month, I find myself continuously coming back to connection.

I was raised to “just be happy.” To put a smile on my face. To be grateful for what I have, and not necessarily ask for more.

Gratitude, I’ve got, but this blind optimism isn’t what I needed when I ran into hurdles; when things got hard and I needed to persist.

As I grew into an adult, I realized optimism, alone, isn’t the answer. I needed to both experience and spread help and healing.

And this could only happen as a result of genuine connection.

I’ve found recovery in friendships with fellow artists, writers, friends, and family members.

I’ve realized I’m not alone when I read certain works; listen to certain music; create and consume certain art.

I’ve gained strength when I’ve been in safe places where honest conversations can be had.

There is infinite power to be found through connection — with people, with creative works, with the world around us.

There is a force behind we, much stronger than the one behind me.

In Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act, A Way of Being, he shares this:

“Nothing begins with us. The more we pay attention, the more we begin to realize that all the work we ever do is a collaboration. It’s a collaboration with the art that’s come before you and the art that will come after. It’s also a collaboration with the world you’re living in, with the experiences you’ve had, with the tools you use, with the audience and with who you are today.”

We, too, are a collaboration with the people who’ve helped us heal. Who’ve made us feel less alone. Who’ve let us borrow their strength.

There’s still a lot of work to be done in this world that we can have an impact on.

Because it’s all so big, it can be hard to know where to start.

I propose we begin with connection.

We can leave our mark by being the friend; the artist; the kind human that shows up and connects with others.

We can make this world a better place.

But we can’t do it alone.

We have power. Together.

The surprising gift of self doubt

The surprising gift of self doubt

Cindy Harris

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

The old becomes new again

Cindy Harris

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.