Quiet Places

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Give me quiet places.

Places where thought trickles down like sunlight through layers of leaves, where it lands, gentle, on the ground in soft illuminations.

Places where there is time to adjust to the world changing, where the daylight stays just a bit longer every day and the plants push their way through the earth, and leaves unfurl from buds that have hinted at purpose since midwinter.

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Give me places where I can walk as a creature among creatures, only judged by the mildest of curiosity. Where the symphony of birds does not break from song at my appearance.

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Let me wrap myself in the mist. Let me watch it soften everything around me.

It may melt a little, and I may melt a little within myself.

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And, then, let me find my way Home.

How can I keep from singing?

The world seems shaken lately. Everything is shifting and changing before my eyes and I am powerless to stop it.

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Yet my smallness in the world is a gift. I have no earthshaking decisions to make, the world does not hang on my words. I only have to watch the sun rise in the morning, and sleep in my home under the stars. And sing my song.

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The sun is rising now as I write and a bird greets the cold thin air and grey dawn with singing. I lift my head and listen to his sweet, unconscious joy.

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My art is my song. It seems like it might get lost in the cold thin air and the grey light of this world. But I like to think that you see it and lift your head for a moment.

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And I like to think I hear your song coming back to me.

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LORD, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me. Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child. Let Israel hope in the LORD from henceforth and for ever.

Paper Dreams

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I was, perhaps, an odd child, prone to spending my allowance on little notebooks full of paper and pens to write on them with. It was usually spent at Ben Franklin’s, after much deliberation in the stationery aisle, and I usually picked a pocket sized notebook and a felt tipped pen to write with.

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We would often visit the Hallmark store or Ritter’s office supply, where the array of pens and papers would leave me dreaming of adulthood when I could afford such fine things.

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I’ve always been charmed by found papers… invoices with spidery writing found tucked into old books, newspaper clippings, a movie ticket, guest paper from a hotel in Paris. Touching them seems to be touching times and places I’ve never seen.

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When my sister gave me three books full of old sheet music, knowing how much I love painting on music, it was a wonderful inspiration and led to this series.

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And… now I have picked my fine paper to turn these little works into cards. Thick paper with just a bit of texture, and I write on it with my fancy fountain pen. ….. So to the little ten year old me in the Hallmark store…. sometimes paper dreams come true.

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Make your paper dreams come true in the shop

Tiny Things

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What is it about tiny things? A baby’s toes, the intricacy of snowflakes, dollhouses. They never fail to delight us.

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The sweetness of things small bring us to a place of pausing… of looking closer… of quietness.

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As the largeness of the universe leaves us dumbstruck, so does the smallness of it, the microscopic worlds that exist beyond our perception, right under our noses.

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And even though I have no brushes small enough to do justice to the truly petite, it’s a delight to paint small now and then. To remember all the richness of detail infused into this beautiful world. And pause to breathe it in.

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Tiny things will be coming to the shop this weekend!

Scent Memories

I’m a little girl in the 70’s, watching in fascination as my teenage aunt gets ready for an evening out. She sits at her vanity, does her hair makeup, and spritzes herself with perfume… Charlie. I can still smell it… feminine but strong.

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I’m sitting with my grandma in church. I am small and bored, and my fascination with the ceiling is wearing off. Grandma’s purse is shiny, with a clasp that closes with two satisfying little balls that snap together. I think it is most elegant. She fishes out a peppermint for me, and a tiny glass sample of perfume that she lets me put on. It smells soft and sweet.

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I’m watching my Grandpa in his workshop, cutting and carving wood into something marvelous. The smell of sawdust, dusty and woody and comforting, fills the garage. I run my finger through shavings so small they are fluffy and gentle to touch.

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I’m at my other grandparents, down between the old barn and the pond. I am walking in mud that oozes around my canvas sneakers. The grass, green and long, has been pressed into the mud by a tractor that came along before me. I smell the rain that has past, and the whiff of old stone and wood from the barn, the sun warming the mud and the reeds of the pond.

Smells are my time-machines.

Cafe Charm

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What makes cafes so charming? Why do we seek them out when we visit a new place?

Perhaps it’s that magical combination of the familiar and the new. We know what to expect…. coffee, a chair to sit in, some kind of sustaining food….

But each place is different. It’s that rare gift… a manageable adventure.

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Perhaps there will be books. A quiet corner. Stellar decor. Your favorite music playing. A friendly dog. A new aquaintance. Perhaps there will be extra whipped cream.

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It’s a supreme location for people watching. To watch the magic of story taking place all around you.

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It’s a cozy place to sit in stormy weather. A place to chat with a friend. A pause. A place to be. To notice the way the light slants, the upper story windows across the street, the climbing ivy. To wait for whatever it is you are waiting for.

Preorder prints and notecards of the Cafe series in the shop

The Beauty of the Ordinary

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It was an ordinary evening. The sky was still bright when I went for my walk after supper as usual, but the sun plunges fast at the end of summer and it was quite dark when I started climbing the driveway for home. Past the trees, in the clearing above the bank, I was met with the sight of the bonfire and my family gathered around it, outlined in the reflection of the flames. The trees were black behind them and the sky velvety blue beyond that. It was an ordinary moment, but so beautiful.

It was an ordinary day in the life of the small business owner. The glancing at the bank accounts, the checking of bills due, the planning for proper cash flow. There were the hours of work, the posting on social media, the planning for upcoming products and launches. But on the other side of all that was the customer. The customer who had a problem solved. A customer who received something beautiful, something that made her complicated life a little simpler, a little easier. And her face lit up. It was an ordinary moment, but so beautiful.

Don’t wait for the extraordinary moments… the record breaking month, the awards, the publicity, to celebrate your business. Those aren’t where the beauty in your business truly lies. The beauty lies in the values that drive you and in the small everyday contributions you make to the lives of your customers. What makes your business beautiful?

I’m here to help you capture the beauty of your business in a visual way. Want to chat about customizing a painting? Feel free to message me or schedule a call.

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Art and Beauty aren't Luxuries

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It’s true that few can afford the work of the most famous artists to hang on their wall. It’s true that we prioritize those items that keep our physical bodies alive…. food and shelter. Art can’t keep us alive…. or can it?

The world we live and move in, that world is a work of art. The stars that fade into the sunrise into the blue of the day. The stretching out of the land, flat or rolling or cracked deep. The water. The plants. The animals. Us. Beauty is free. Something that’s free can’t be a luxury.

We can’t escape beauty even in the midst of the blandness or cruelty of life. The light will catch our eyes. We’ll see the brave weeds growing up through the cracks, green and flowering.

A man who is starving isn’t kept alive by the food he lacks, but by the thought of beauty. The stories, the hope of love, the clouds scudding across the sky, the heaving breathing of water that reflects the sky and reveals the depths in turn. The food is what is too costly, the luxury he cannot afford. It is the beauty that is free, that gives him courage to go on.

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