on creating spaces

The porch sweeps around the house in a L shape, it's deep and covered. If you listen closely, you can hear the music from inside, the scratch of the record mingling with a spring breeze and sunshine. There is nothing like music dancing in the open air.

Here, I'm drawn to the simple, to empty corners and walls that hold one instead of many. I'm interested in less and fewer and the way it feels. Perhaps, because in settling in, we are saying, let's make this home, let's belong here, and while I find great comfort in that, I will always need the wide open; the balance of wanting to belong, while maintaining the roaring free that exists eternally inside. The two will journey with me for all my days, I am certain. And it's not about quenching one or indulging the other, because I need them both, and they must be nurtured, in their respective ways.

In the sitting room, on the wall across from the fireplace, my new painting lives, my first of North Carolina, and nothing else. Nothing rests in the corner or sits against the wall and when I see it, a deep breath sweeps through me. It says, there is room here and space to be and live and grow and love and create.

To discover.

To share.

To search.

To dream.

To risk.

To hope.

There is space here and we are free to do with it what we will.

In life. You and I. Today and right now.

As I walk down the hall, I am not struck my the emptiness, but by the possibilities that come when we leave room on walls, in our hearts, and our time. For where we leave space, things can grow and we need that, plants, humans, and dreams alike, space and air and nurturing.

It's a delicate balance, and it feels good here.

The story of a season. part one.

We are moving this month.

Life is unfolding before my eyes, in the most brilliant and exciting way and I am being bombarded with understanding and clarity of what these past three years have been for me and for my family. 

Three years ago, this month, we left the charming state of Tennessee and drove north to Minnesota.  We lived in my brother’s basement for three months, in a less than desirable neighborhood.  We survived long enough to get work and move to what some around here call, “a yuppie lake town.”  We enjoyed that zero people got shot on our street on a daily basis and the lake was 1200 feet from our apartment door.  Matt worked two jobs, we had another baby, who cried for four months, didn’t like anyone for nine months, didn’t sleep through the night for a year and today is a wildfire of joy, love, and charm. 

With two kids, two jobs, one car, and our creative interests, we learned the importance of protecting our family time, preserving hours for quiet, sanity, and inspiration, and generally decided we liked spending our time together more than anything else.   We casually attended a church, but realized we weren’t looking for a church to fill our calendars, so we made our family a priority and strangely enough, as we grew slightly disconnected from the church world, we grew in our own relationships with each other and with God.   This is not a statement laced with negative feelings or opinions, it is simply part of our story.

I’m beginning to see that these three years have been a gift, an intensive study in marriage, motherhood, and artistry.  I have learned who I am and I have let go of who I am not.  It has been amazing.  It has also been lonely and disconnected from everything outside of my home and family.  I have met only a handful of friends and truthfully, only one has become a true kindred spirit, a sweet breath of fresh air and support. We can laugh in our broken frustrations, delight in small joys, and encourage in our exhaustion-laden hope.  It has been abundant and rich in a season of social drought and introspection.

I have discovered that art is not simply something I enjoy, but it is the way I see the world, it’s the way I understand God and the way that God reveals himself to me.  I have learned that it is so essential to me, that I want to encourage others, to help them see that a gift lives within them, a story to be told, an adventure to be lived…. something great that brings meaning to this existence, something that compels us onward, leaving behind a wake of beauty, truth, and hope. 

In these last years, my world has been small, home.  Yet, I have screamed dreams, big world-changing dreams into the pages of journals, blog posts, and through paint.  They have brewed inside of me, growing like an unborn child until there is simply no room, until I felt that I couldn’t manage the weight any longer.  And in the slow gestation of these ideas, I began to doubt that these God-given dreams would ever be possible, and I wondered if it might be easier to let them go.  And they grew and grew and tossed and turned, until one night in my impatient and hopeful soul, I crumbled.  I wondered if we would ever leave this place that never felt like home, if we’d ever find community,  a place to belong, and if we’d ever begin to see the fruition of these tormenting and beautiful dreams.   I felt like I would explode.

And you know, perhaps, that is just the right timing, when you cannot continue as you are, because your dream has become so interwoven with who you are, and together you have outgrown your current fishbowl.

End of part one.

for the dreamers: a declaration

The dreams lap the shore of our hearts.

They are gifts of great power and responsibility, to borrow the words.

They beckon us to a deeper, beautiful story in which we are living a life set on fire,

in meaning and intention and love.

 

And we stand before the water, as we face this new year and

we dare to believe that they are good and true and

above all, possible.

 

We dare to acknowledge that if we work hard, love well, and pursue

that which shakes the inside of our souls,

the right doors will open.

The right people will walk beside us and disrupt our steady stride.

 

We know the road will be full of obstacles and struggles,

we must collect our daily strength, faith, and bread.

And we can be sure that we will be required

to walk bravely into the darkness and

remember that the light glowing inside, although at times dim,

cannot be quenched.

 

And if we are faithful stewards of these dreams,

these gifts, these creative urges,

the calling that echoes in our rising and slumbering,

we will look back and know,

we will raise our eyes to the heavens and breathe in

the breath, ever sustaining and always beckoning.

 

The dreams lap the shore of our hearts,

whispering with all the power of the wind and the moon,

with all the intention of the great Creator,

a fresh new page awaits, shall we?

 

 

My friends, Create boldly.

-Olivia

On the new and ending the old

Yesterday, I stumbled upon a document on my computer titled, Morning Pages.  For the past five years I’ve kept up with the practice on and off, ever since completing The Artists Way, (highly recommended).  It’s the practice of free writing three pages each morning, to spill your every thought and question, thus creating home for them, so that the open spaces of your brain can be filled with creative energy.  It’s never meant for anyone else to read, so there’s no pressure to spin words perfectly and it does wonders for a head that feels blurry and full—you know, when you’re grasping for thoughts, but they flutter just out of your reach like colorful butterflies in hyper drive when you are stuck in slow motion.

When I opened this document, I expected to see the last date of 12.26.12, instead, it was 12.28.11.  Apparently there are a few of these floating around the corners of my computer memory, but a funny thing happened, as I glanced over the words I had written a year ago, they carried the same questions, truths, and dreams that were on my heart a year later.  Almost identical. And that’s not to say that there hasn’t been growth in this year of 2012, but in the area of creativity and business, I know the journey is so young.  This blog is nothing if not a testament to the various creative enterprises that I’ve tested out and all of them had lead me one step closer to here or there, whatever “that” place is.  I don’t consider them failures, because with each one I learned, expanded my skills, and perhaps, found the courage to try something new. 

When I read the words I wrote from last December, it was just the push I needed to take yet another step.  For a while now, months, even longer, I’ve been weary of selling my art online.  As an artist, a piece of my heart goes into everything I make and then to slap a price on it and say, “hey hey, pick me, pretty please”  is the opposite of inspiring, it’s almost soul-quenching.  It interferes with my creative process as occasionally the thought will swirl around, could I sell this?  And that’s the killer right there.  I will never stop making art, ever, not even if my hands fall off, but I’m tired of the selling lingering in the back of my mind.

And while I have some ideas that I will be pursuing during this next part of the adventure, I have come to a great understanding, or rather have come to the same understanding in a greater way,

I want to write.

I want to write.

I want to write.

Sure, I could do both, but I found myself in a fearful place, when this truest words resounded from my most honest soul, but if I don’t sell my art online, will I still be “considered” an artist?  How will people find my work?  Can you even stand the putrid nonsense of that? I can’t.  Of course, I’m an artist, of course.  Shut up.  And I suppose that when it comes down to it, the right people will always find you, if you are following your heart. If you are taking brave steps that lead you to doors waiting to be opened.   If you roar your dreams into the night sky, they will not go unheard.  The internet is just a tool, a silly/useful tool.

To be even more vulnerable, in the early fall, when I was considering this, I dared to suggest to God, that if I closed my shop, how would extra money even come?  Ha, as if the great creator of the universe was limited to supplying our needs via my tiny little website. And, as it happened, I haven’t sold a piece of art online since August, not a single one.   I know, what a ridiculous thing to say.  I don’t recommend it.

And then the inevitable question that we all come to when we are going forward in any part of life, will you surrender the good for something better?  Your hands will be empty for a while, but only then can they be filled again.  Sometimes, the “good” isn’t really much of anything is, we’re just afraid to let go and hold on to that which we can’t see, because, then what? 

Well.. then anything, really.

And I like possibilities, you know.

All of this to say, I’m closing the shop for an indefinite amount of time on Monday, the 31st.   So if there is anything you’d like to order, do so this weekend.  If there are any original paintings that you have been wanting, send me a message about any offers (I’m open).  

As to whatever happens next, I will be writing it here.

With 2013 just around the next Monday, I am filled with excitement for the new days and opportunities, for the friends that will be made, for the places we will go, for the creativity that will fuel and connect us, for the encouragement and signs that will carry us forward to what awaits.

 

Molly: You remember when I was a little girl and I could play Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto and everyone was talking about my potential?

Mr. Magorium:  Mhhm.

Molly: Well, I am 23 now and everyone's still talking about my potential but if you ask ‘em to play the song I know best... I'll still play Rachmaninov's Second.

Mr. Magorium: May I suggest you stun the world with Molly Mahoney's First?

The Warehouse: an allegory

For reasons unknown to us, we had come in possession of a thrift store.  Still dazed with the shock of the news, we turned the lock to the warehouse and stepped into a massive collection of dust coated castaways.  Rows and rows of shelves stocked full of items, once in use and demand.  Stacks of beautiful doors leaned against concrete walls, telling of weathering paint and finger-print stained windows.  Large vases housed strange dusty imitation leaves, ferns, and blossoms.  Wire baskets filled with a myriad of random.

Beyond that I could not say what filled the store, because dreams are always tinted with a blur and if you try looking closer the blur increases.  Am I alone in this?  How certain details of dreams, the ones that you especially want to understand are impossible to see? 

We had just begun to take stock of this place, when customers walked in, the sign read open.  It frustrated me that we couldn’t close for just a while to make sense of the madness, but alas, the doors continued to open and close to sound of an old bell and the questions.

“How much for this?”

“I don’t believe this is worth the price listed, it is broken here and here.”

“Can you tell me where to find what I’m looking for?”

We weren’t sure how the cash register worked, the line swelled with angry, impatient people. We did the best we could, after a few tries we were learning and the anger diffused.  That’s when the authorities came.

“I am Mr.Wiles, Deputy Inspector of Regulations and Restrictions, I’m here to issue this notice that demands you close down shop.  You are in violation of five codes and the city is revoking your license.” 

He wore an ill-fitting suit with a bowler that no longer resembled any current fashion.  His eyes were dark and I could find no sign of a sparkle in them. I tried to make him understand, that we were new and we didn’t know all the details.  I tried to explain that we had received a letter and a key and how not even an hour earlier we walked in those doors for the first time. 

“Well, then you won’t mind surrendering your papers and key,” he answered in a monotone, borderline non-human way. 

I trembled, but with conviction responded, “I’m sorry, but we can’t do that just yet.  I know that we can do something with this place, I know that we can turn it into something really great.  This place is full of treasures yet to be discovered, but we haven’t had enough time. We need time to search through the junk and the dust to find them. We need time to wash away the dirt. You must understand sir, it takes time and we have only just arrived.  Give us an extension and you will see.

He bit the side of his lips and his eyes shifted back and forth, he was pretending to consider my request.  And before he could reject, a lady with tight wrinkles above her nose and a sour expression on her face approached. She wore a perfectly tailored midnight blue suit, a scarf of the same color tied meticulously around her neck.   Each side of the scarf extended the same amount down in either direction.

“Ms. Withers, ma’am of the Department of System Interiors.  It has come to our attention that we have not received your last monthly filings. I am here to collect articles A through G immediately. If you can not hand them over, we have the right to take into our possession this dusty collection of junk.  As you can see, it can not be of any use to you, these piles of waste.  It is nonsense and garbage and we will happily take it off your hands and put them to more practical uses.”

I looked to see Mr. Wiles standing silently, he too was waiting for my resignation.

More passionately than the first time, I took a deep breath and replied,

“Ms. Withers,  just today, we walked into the building for the first time. We don’t know why it has been given to us or anything else, all I can tell you is that from the few moments I have had to explore, I am certain that this nonsense and garbage as you call it has the potential to be turned into something beautiful.  It may look filthy and pointless, but I know that with time and care, you won’t even recognize this place. I don’t know why the last owner stopped seeing that, I don’t know why he gave up.  I don’t have those files for you, but we am here now and from this point on we will be happy to fill out your forms…”

“But protocol requires those documents, I must have those exact forms. This is my job and without those forms, we cannot continue, the system requires it,” Ms. Withers interrupted, her voice trembled at the idea of not obtaining those forms.

“And I must add, that the list of code violations is damning, you simply cannot do what you say.  This place is nothing and can be nothing and you will be better off turning over your papers and keys,” Mr. Wiles said as echoes of the last statement bounces off the walls.

I surveyed the room, the gray concrete walls hovering high above me. I saw the rows that housed shelves of dusty forlorn items, dismissed and cast aside. The dust so thick that the original color was tinted a dismal gray.  I saw areas of furniture gathered according to type, dented and scratched.  The vases filled with flowers that never lived, but even now were dying.  All around me, I saw a society of wood, plastic, textiles, and glass under the rule of the dust and despair so strong that the colors were no longer visible to the human eye.  The air was thick and a heaviness wafted above our heads.

To my left Mr.Wiles in his haphazard black from head to toe and Ms. Withers in her midnight blue.

For a moment, I believe them.  I thought of the time and work that would change this place. I imagined the exhaustion and the piles of junk we’d have to sort through to find the treasures.  I felt the weight of the emotional journey that would come from washing away the layers that hid the beautiful.  The case seemed overwhelming, until I saw it in the corner of my eye.  A large industrial wire basket under a table, filled with empty picture frames and pieces of wood, and curiously, one wool blanket, a soft shade of cream, like sweet butter, with stripes of red, yellow, and blue.  The colors as vibrant as an artist’s palette, a tiny palette of color in world of dull.

And I knew they were wrong. 

“I’m sorry, but you must leave. I can not give you what you want, but you must leave now. We have work to do.”

I said it with certainty and authority, looking them in the eye.  The two of them shook their heads, casting unsure glances at each other.  This breech of protocol left them shaking in their well polished shoes. Ms. Withers raised her hand from the piles of paper in her hands in objection, she began to speak.

“I’m sorry, but you must leave. I will not give you want you want.  We have work to do.”

I interjected, halting the speech from her mouth.  I ushered them towards the door, they protested all the way through and once the doors closed, they stood outside pounding the metal.

But I would not listen and I turned to my husband, our eyes searched each other’s deeply and with a shake of our heads, we pushed up our sleeves and walked towards the world tinted of grey.

a scribbled dream in the margin

Today I wrote down a dream in the margin of a book that I’m sure to open time after time.  In a purple pencil, I wrote the date, June 1, 2012.  I sat in a yellow chair and saw glimpses of what that dream might look like in my head.

I wrote it down, because I want to keep it safe, from life and distractions and dream devouring nonsense.  I wrote it down on paper and then scribed it into the corners of my heart, a safe protected place, where imagination lives and keeps watch.

A dream of a place for art and worship and creativity and connection.

And I then I came here to record it, to plant it and to watch it grow.

Calm and Bright

Last December was our first winter in this land of wintry oppression, known to the greater United States of America as Minnesota.  At this time last year, we were already six weeks buried under countless feet of snow. I think six weeks is the perfect length for winter, incase anyone wanted to take note of that this time around, ahem.  I was also supremely large with child, only eight weeks to go, eager and anxious.  The day after Christmas our car died and we were carless for two months.  Matt was still working two jobs (still is) and relying on the bus system, which took extra hours away from us and meant he faced frigid and inhumane temperatures. And our new baby cried for the first four months of her life.  It was a long winter, literally and figuratively.

Today, I look outside my window and only a light dusting of the second snowfall remains cast upon the brown earth. On most days, I feel like I’ve got a handle on this whole two kids gig, at least 85% of the day.  We’ve implemented a system that includes me leaving the house one afternoon a week all by myself.  No errands, no demands, just a few hours of remembering what it was like to sit in a coffee shop at leisure.  My husband gets an afternoon too, because he needs that time just as much as I do.  It’s the best thing we ever done.  Every night, I’m free writing (morning pages as known in The Artist’s Way).  It’s a season of abundant creativity and I’m so thankful.  On a regular basis, I have tea with a friend and the most encouraging and inspiring conversations, while our kids play. We started a small business this year, and we just completed our first custom family Christmas card.  We’re getting to be part of helping friends grow their families.  We’re investing in a dream that no longer seems far away, as we hold a large stack of printed cards in our hand. On the back, our own names where you’d usually find another.  We’re seeing provisions come in the most unexpected ways.  Last night, we stood in the kitchen at a very late, sleepy hour and acknowledged this first major milestone with Furthermore Creative.  And today, when I paid the last bills of the month, I didn’t grimace or sigh.  There was enough.  Because, he is enough.

I’m knitting a stocking for my baby girl, it will be her first Christmas and my first knit stocking. Today, during her nap, we strung popcorn on a thread to hang on the tree. Mostly, my helper ate the popcorn and sipped hot cocoa, heavy on the marshmallows. And tonight, the evening is ours. We’ll tuck our babies into bed at a ridiculously early hour (because it’s already dark and we love them and our time alone) and catch up on our favorite Thursday shows, that we always watch on Friday nights, by the light of the fire and this week, the peaceful glow of that silly little tree in the corner.

I think of the words, “All is calm, all is bright.” and I wonder if the calm is more than a description of the manager scene. Is it also an offering of thanksgiving, a story of peace and contentment, an acknowledgement of love and hope? I think, maybe yes.

All is calm. All is bright.

I wish they knew.

I wore my hounds tooth cape, the one I made. Weaving through the aisles, I came to a full stop at that holiday cookie display. I want to pitch a tent and occupy the cookie display, and in protest, eat all of them.

The checkout line was short on this beautiful grey day, cold, but the kind of cold that feels warm once January comes.  I will say this for my whole life, but how do people stand the winters in Minnesota?  The friendly lady took my basket and then asked what I called that (cape), is it a poncho?  Her friend and check- out counter relief partner came and replied, it’s a cape.  This was followed by,  Where did you get that? 

I softly replied that I made it from an old jacket, hesitantly, because sometimes, when people hear that you can make clothes, they go a bit crazy.  Enter scene.  YOU MADE THAT? WHAT I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? NO, WOW. THAT’S AMAZING. IT’S AMAZING HOW PEOPLE CAN MAKE THINGS LIKE THAT. I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT PEOPLE CAN JUST MAKE SUCH NEAT THINGS. I COULD NEVER. I COULD NEVER. 

No, stop. not the never.

Now, being that words of affirmation is one of my major love languages, this would normally send me over the moon, pushing my tank to F, but in this moment, I’m embarrassed, If I shrank down to two inches tall, then I could sneak away, but they went on and on. Are they still putting my items in the bag?  They were so loud and so shocked.  People were starting to overhear the two of them and I just stood there, feigning a smile.  I tried to tell them that all I did was cut off the original sleeves, reshape them, and sew the pieces back together, but they didn’t hear me. 

But most of all, I wanted to scream. I wanted them to take back their I-could-nevers and throw them away over the ledge, never to be needed again.  The amount of shock over a simple jacket refashion broke my heart, here were two beautiful ladies who believed the never, instead of the could. I wish they believed in themselves, in the abilities and potential they possessed.  In the abilities they’ve yet to discover and pursue.  I wish they were the proud owners of a notion that anything is possible. I wish they were dear friends with the truth that each one of us is capable, talented, and unique.  Our gifts come in all sizes.  We all have something great to offer.

Sometimes, it feels lonely to be a person who believes in dreams and possibilities, in a world where too many do not. What ever happened? What went wrong? Were their dreams trampled upon, smashed into oblivion? Did they ever meet a face of encouragement? If I shouted from the rooftops, YOU CAN, would they believe me?

I wish they would, because they can.

you can.

linking up with Just Write

Secret Clubhouse

^{I think there is a great injustice in the world and adults are the victims.  Kids have all the fun: playrooms, forts, tree houses, secret clubhouses, people who clean them and feed them multiple times a day.  Adults have houses that they must clean, repair, maintain, and worst of all pay for, outrage.  And, we sit quietly in submission, refusing to take action.}

^{If I had a secret clubhouse and I most certainly do need one, it would be the most amazing place.  Unlike those which belong to children, I would totally allow boys, so I could sneak away with my husband and we could make out (eww, gross). Whatever, not gross. awesome sauce.}

^{Children would only be allowed  two days a week under adult supervision, namely when that adult is not me.  There would be a full service beverage bar, art studio, and fire pit for roasting burning marshmallows.}

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I’d invite my friends and we’d sit around drinking iced coffee from mason jars.

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On warm summer nights, we could sit by the water, watching the fireflies and

do a little fishing.

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And we would absolutely need this giant hammock.

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And obviously, this. No question about it.

Don’t you love my secret clubhouse?  What would yours be like?

on beginnings

Eagerly I share photos of  my finished projects and successes, but I often hesitate to write the frustrations. So, in efforts to share this whole journey, the good, the bad, and the ugly.. today I made ugly pants. The ease that I envisioned in my head of how these pants would come together was a big fat lie.  I became grumpy with my machine, my child, myself, and my dream.

For a few moments, in my own emotional frenzy, I felt like if I couldn’t make this fabric into the perfectly chic piece of clothing, then how would I ever be able to make anything.  

I threw the unfinished pants into an angry pile on my desk, turned off my machine, ate some lunch, and climbed into my bed as the babies slept.  As I pulled my cozy blanket in close to protect me from all that was wrong in the world, I slowly returned to a functional state of existence. 

I remembered that this was the very first pair of pants that I was making, on my own, ever. No patterns, no instructions. I remembered that beginnings can be rough. I remembered that those stupid, elegant, flowy, sailor type pants in catalogues were the result of years of hard work and many failed attempts.  I reminded myself of dozens of clichés that were horrible and true. 

And then, as the fog lifted, I said to myself, HEY SELF, they might not be perfect, but they look like freakin’ pants, pants with legs and holes for your legs and room in the derrière  for you to sit down and move and walk  and hey… YOU MADE PANTS, slightly ugly, but still pants.  You are designing clothes.  You are walking down the path. 

Then I told God I was sorry for my horrible attitude and I took a nap. 

When I woke up and drank some wildly strong, black coffee, no longer were those unfinished, less than ideal pants a spawn of the failure monster, but simply a lesson, an attempt, a step in the right direction.

I write all of this to remember that beginnings are hard, full of trial and error, but they do not define us and we keep striving, re-working, and creating, because it’s all part of the dream.  We all have to start somewhere and sadly some never start. 

Here’s to beginnings and enough grace to continue.

And as Claire Colburn says in Elizabethtown,

“So you failed. Alright, you really failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You failed. You think I care about that? I do understand. You wanna be really great? Then have the courage to fail big and stick around. Make them wonder why you're still smiling.”

to share a dream

“Dreams are illustrations... from the book your soul is writing about you.” – Marsha Norman

I’m a dreamer, this is true.  I’ve been reveling in a state of delight lately, because I can actually see one of these dreams unfolding.  I’ve got a long way to go, I’m starting down the path and I know it’s a good place.

There is an undeniable force within me to inspire and enable creativity and to design.  Right now, that passion is coming out in the area of clothing design. It’s something that I’ve always been interested in, but until recently I never knew just how much.  Now that I actually see and know how clothes are made, and how the pieces are constructed, a wildfire has been lit and in the  still moments, with the humming of my machine, I think to myself, I could actually do this. I can do this. I am doing this.  What happens when you realize you are doing something you’ve wanted to do for so long?

As I wrote last week on how I’m immersing myself into this realm.  I go to bed sketching ideas.  I analyze the details and construction of every interesting article of clothing I see.  I pour over sewing blogs.  I slowly walk through the rows of fabric, feeling the threads and textures between my fingers.  Any chance I get, I’m sitting in front of my machine. 

So, without knowing where this will lead or what will happen along the way, I’m going forward, into the unknown, which you know I love.  I’m wildly excited about the possibilities and it’s difficult for me to not leap from the start of an idea to the big reveal, but that’s the dreamer in me. This is the beginning and perhaps, the most horrifying part is admitting to all of you, throwing my dreams into the big bad universe of mediocrity and judgment. But.. it appears, I just told you. Yikes.  I’m opening up a tiny part of me that has been until now unrevealed and sharing with you, so that you can come along and watch this discovery unfold.

I could fail. It could be a fiasco (Elizabethtown reference, if you will), but a very trusted advisor in college told me and my friends one day when we were freaking out about graduation and having zero clue about what to do next, that we didn’t need to be so worried about mistakes, that everything we do will lead us to where we are meant to be. I’ll never forget that. 

“The only real failure in life is the failure to try.”

I’m trying.  I knocking on the proverbial door (isn’t proverbial a lovely word?), who knows what will happen.  I have many things to learn, but naptime is a new opportunity and there is a wealth of information waiting for me.  On the sidebar of my blog, I’ve added a donate button, if you would like to support my adventures in dreaming, discovery, and design.  I do feel a bit silly, when I know there are people who are in need, while all my basic needs are met, but any gifts will allow me to further develop my skills and buy supplies. So, if this resonates with you and you want to be a part of this, thank you. 

My blog will continue to be a mix of me, sometimes silly, sometimes pensive.  I’ll be ridiculous and serious, sharing adventures with my little H’s, my musings on motherhood, art, life, beauty, and all the things that inspire. And I will most definitely be chronicling this new adventure.  I do so hope that as you read of my own journey, that within you, a spark will light or be rekindled, that a stirring deep inside of you will come to the surface and you too will find yourself on the verge of a place you really want to be, ready to jump in. Jumping.

Thanks so much.  Here we go…

“Often the difference between a successful person and a failure is not one has better abilities or ideas, but the courage that one has to bet on one's ideas, to take a calculated risk - and to act.”

fingers paint your way to dreams.

Last week, I indulged in a bit of sheer joy, finger painting.  I am convinced there is no remedy for a lack of inspiration like finger painting.  Your hands are covered with paints of all colors, and you just make something.  You’ve never sure exactly what it is until just the right moment, you observe and say, "that’s it.”  Even if you only see one big mess, I promise you’ll feel better.

I had an excerpt that I wanted to add from one of my favorite books, Wide Awake, that I needed to see everyday, over and over again.  An encouragement, a reminder of who I am, and a declaration of my intentions to the world.

Here’s the formula for this perfect brief moment of expression:  candle + coffee + music + sleeping baby + art supplies everywhere. 

      Here’s the quote:

Others need to see to believe.  You see because you believe.  If only the rest of the world could see what you see—it would change everything.  They would understand that you are not simply a hopeless romantic.  While some dream to escape life; you dream to live.  You see a life, a world, a future, so beautiful it takes your breath away.  You must pursue this dream.  It is what makes you feel alive.  If must become reality.  You’re not closing your eyes to the real world, you’re just dreaming with your eyes open.

-Wide Awake, Erwin McManus.

Ready.  Set. Finished.

Hello, daily inspiration. Now, go get messy and finger paint.

enthusiasm it is.

I'm a few weeks behind the rest of the group in the Artist's Way Book Club, but this experience has been invaluable. I am discovering things about myself that I never realized and my creativity is overflowing into all sorts of areas, even new ones such as baking{which my husband has no complaints} and a greater awareness of my desire to help others live inspired lives. I am holding a small event with some friends called, "Inspire: A Night of Discovering Your Creativity" and I'm so excited... more on that later.

Last week I read Chapter 9: Recovering a Sense of Compassion. There were a few points that really stood out to me. I'd like to share them with you.

The need to be a great artist makes it hard to be an artist.

The need to produce a great work of art makes it hard to produce any art at all.

(pg. 152.)

I've dealt with this one a few times, just a few. For example, I've heard this thought once or twice... "Are you making any money with this?" or "Can you sell that?" I become consumed with the fact that I am not shipping out products multiple times a day. Not surprisingly, I tend to experience moments of "creative drought," after this, until I realize I paint to paint or I sew to create, not to put some money in the bank. Now, I'd gladly accept the profits of my talents, but to get lost in that concept will only send me to the land of eternal creative-nothingness. I don't ever want to visit there.

Next...

Setting impossible goals creates enormous fear, which creates procrastination, which we wrongly call laziness. Do not call procrastination laziness. Call it fear. Fear is what blocks an artist. The fear of not being good enough. The fear of not finishing. The fear of failure and of success. The fear of beginning at all. There is only one cure for fear. That cure is love. (pg. 152)

I must confess I hate the idea of failure (who doesn't), but that I have been more afraid of success than failure. Some people have called me crazy. I remember once there was this guy I liked and one night during a long conversation about life, hopes, dreams, and all, I asked him, "Have you ever been afraid that all your dreams might actually come true? Have you ever thought about the great responsibility that would come with those dreams, that it might be too hard?" "No," he said. He thought that made no sense. {Perhaps, his thoughts never got that deep.} In case you are wondering, that almost relationship, never became a relationship. Sometime later, I met Matt and he had much more to say on the subject of dreams and the responsibility and commitment to those dreams. He actually understood how I could ask such a question. That, along with many other reasons is why I said, yes, when he got on one knee and held up a pretty little box with an even prettier little ring in it.

Finally, my third excerpt.

"It must take so much discipline to be an artist," we are often told by well meaning people who are not artists but wish that they were.... As artists, grounding our self-image in military discipline is dangerous. In the short run, discipline may work, but it will only work for a while.... We admire ourselves for being so wonderful. The discipline itself, not the creative outflow, becomes the point.

That part of us that creates best is not a driven, disciplined, automaton, functioning from willpower, with a booster of pride to back it up...

Over any extended period of time, being an artist requires enthusiasm more than discipline. Enthusiasm is not an emotional state. It is a spiritual commitment, a loving surrender to our creative process, a loving recognition of all the creativity around us.

Enthusiasm (from the Greek, "filled with God") is an ongoing energy supply tapped into the flow of life itself. Enthusiasm is grounded in play, not work. (pg. 153.)

When I read this, I was so moved that I felt like the words were jumping off the page and dancing with me. Yes, that made sense. I was going through this time where I kept thinking, "My art needs more discipline, more discipline, please." Obviously, that didn't work. I could be more disciplined in my life, my habits and exercise, but in my art, I needed enthusiasm. I needed to be filled with God. I find myself remembering this idea on a daily basis. I've noticed, the more devoted I am to my Savior, the greater the creativity that I feel. It makes sense, yes?

Like, I said, it's been a great journey so far. If you are interested in reading more, you can find The Artist's Way here.

To do list:

"To Do List:"

From Noted Cards

but a longing fulfilled is the tree of life...

I feel like today has been an exceptional day.  It has been an exceptional day. It has.

1.  My newest card, "No Remedy, " was featured on Red Bubble's page, which means that out of hundreds of new pieces that were added today, it was added to the featured gallery for all the people to see.  That made my day, right there.

2.  I received word that a $1400 dollar hospital bill was completely taken care of by the hospital's financial assistance program.  Praise God from whom all blessing flow!!

3.  While checking in on some of the blogs that I follow, namely, The English Muse, I am scrolling through a collection of inspiring photos and... what?  I see "No Remedy," and my name.  I pretty much freaked out, a lot. Why?  I've always had the support and encouragement of my friends and family, in my artistic endeavors, but I know I'm not alone in thinking about how great it would be to have strangers enjoy my art.  I know being mentioned in a blog is a far cry from the Louvre, but it's a big deal to me.  Today people are appreciating my art, not because it's mine, but because it's art. 

What can I say, the excitement is jumping up and down inside of me, good thing I had that massage today.  It's been an exceptional day and tomorrow, I celebrate my birthday.

Write this down, Miss Writer

I have never been one to make resolutions.  I've always thought that it's silly to go along with all the hype a new year brings and decide that you are going to make life chances.  Plus, I tend to reject "rules," or anything resembling them, even when I am the one setting them for myself.  I've had to reshape my vocabulary to say things like: I want to do more of this, I'd like to be more... rather than: I can't do this, I have to do this.  I'm not such a fan of the can't and must dos.

Rather, I have really been encouraged to work towards those dreams of mine that I keep in a safe place.  Last year, the anticipation and then arrival of my dear little boy pretty much trumped, oh everything.  He's here and wonderful.  Now I'm more aware of the fact that if I don't discipline myself to focus on delving into my creative thought processes, I could very easily let them slip away in the name of exhaustion.

It is too easy to ignore the voice that says, "Write this down, miss writer."  It is too easy.  Recently, in conversation with some friends during our monthly book club meeting, we began talking about the goals and dreams we have in our lives.  More than one of us noted that achieving these items will take risk and sacrifices, but sans that risk and sacrifices, success is impossible.  Writing is too crucial to who I am to neglect it, to not nurture its whispers and shouts, to leave numerous journals out of sight- thus, out of mind.  

January has brought me a renewed sense of possibility,  and a clearer understanding of how no one else is going to fill the pages of my journal, post my blogs, most of all, start writing that book.  You see, this book haunts me.  I know I want it. I know I love it. I know I can.  Yet, I don't even know what it is or where to start.  Rather, maybe I am afraid to start without knowing where it will lead. Yes, that is very possible.

Some people look at their dreams and fear that they will never ever come to pass. That's easy to me, because I look at my dreams and there is this daunting fear of the great responsibility that comes with such lofty dreams.  I think it is scarier to me to say, "What if all my dreams really DO come true?  Can I handle that?  Am I capable of the strength, discipline, and dedication that accompanies such great passion and purpose?"  It's curious that I despise mediocrity but also "fear" greatness.  I use fear, more in the terms of reverence rather than terror.

The plain truth, I am the only one stopping me.  I no longer want to be my only hindrance.  No resolution is going to reform this, only the pen in my hand and the tap of my fingers on the keys.

Only I can stop me.

Only I can write it.