I have returned to my childhood self, and she is healing. I’m back, like when I was a wild-haired child, to running around the woods, gardening, creating, imagining, laughing, and feeling all the big things I feel. Nothing is wasted. Everything is creative.

I miss being on a team and working towards a common goal. It wasn’t until recently that I realized I am on a new team in my adult life, and it’s not what I expected.

In our current age of society, it’s so easy to become impatient. I hate to admit it, but I’m quick to compare. Myself to another artist. My running goals and training compared to another athlete. How I feel I’m spending my time compared to what someone else posts on their stories (cause, who knows what the reality is!). I have not compared my plants and greenhouse to anyone else, though.

Artists are meaning makers. We create visual, audio, and physical experiences from our crafts. We show our hearts, ideas, past, dreams, and sorrows in every brushstroke, color choice, word, and collection. Even if a painting is an obviously a mountain landscape, there is vulnerability in every line, layered under paint. Art, creative work, and writing is revealing. You feel exposed and naked letting others into your world.

I’ve always been a big journal keeper and thinker. Now, I want to share some of that here.