This morning, the air held that unmistakable softness that only early May can bring. The trees are just beginning their green blush, the grass is growing brighter along the roadside. The first ferns are making their quiet entrance . . .

Our April landscape here is a study in contradictions. The snow is finally gone (we hope), but the ground is beyond saturated.  Between extra snowmelt and this recent monsoon season, our waters are flooding and the ground is soft and muddy, holding the memory of winter. Patches of green are emerging—nothing dramatic, just small, shy beginnings through the fields of fog . . .

It’s official. I’ve moved into the new studio and fully furnished this 750 square feet of beautiful open, airy, light space. This called for a million decisions that may be right or wrong and I won’t know until I'm fully working in the space. It reminds me that faith, even in spring, is an act of trust . . .

That reflects exactly what’s been happening for me over the last few weeks. While the world is in chaos, I’ve been focusing on finding small and quiet reprieves. Then, I miraculously got wind of a new studio space…a dream space. The kind I would have NEVER thought possible . . .

This morning I walked past a grove of sugar maples and recognized the lines and bags. The sap is running. Just a few drops, but enough to signal that the freeze–thaw rhythm has finally begun . . .

This morning the sun rose slow and reluctant, casting a gold glow across the frozen lake. This is the small lake where we watch the winter sunrises as we don’t have many sunsets in the winter. The ice looked almost luminous—solid, quiet, holding the weight of winter with a kind of humble strength. I stood there watching the light shift across the surface, remembering how, just weeks ago, the water was restless and open . . .

Yesterday I walked through the orchard under a sky the color of pewter, the kind of February sky that feels low enough to touch. Snow lay in clean, unbroken drifts between the rows, and the cold was the kind that settles into your bones . . .

This week I stood at the edge of a lake, watching the wind push long plates of ice against one another—shifting, drifting, rearranging themselves without ever fully settling . . .

In the first days of winter, I often feel the tug to begin again—this year feels different. Beginning looks less like striving and more like honoring space. 2025 reshaped so many parts of me: routines rearranged themselves, priorities shifted on the fly, we renovated the house, moved me out of my downtown studio, and somehow every single part of how I work evolved . . .

The day after Christmas always feels like a long exhale — a quiet clearing where the noise settles, the lights dim, and my heart finally starts to catch up to the year it has lived. And this year… what a year it was. I can scarcely take it all in . . .

St. Lucia Day feels like a celebration of way finding to me. Not many are familiar with it in this country, but it harkens to my Swedish roots where they have a much more widespread celebration . . .

I'm living the dream of my ancestors.

I think of my immigrant great grandparents who made a terribly difficult decision to leave everything they had ever known to come to America. I think of my parents who raised all three of us kids to be entrepreneurs, running our own businesses. It is hard and deeply worth it. All of our Thanksgivings before…I still feel them. I feel the hands of those long gone on my shoulders . . .

The fiery red and orange have settled into shades of warm paprika and cinnamon. The skies have greyed and the branches are mostly bare. It’s surprising how the landscape changes just because the leaves are down and the light hits different. I’m struck again with the beauty of starkness . . .

There’s something about Fall. The smell of leaves and the dampness. The chill in the air.  On special mornings when I need comfort, I run one town over to get me some biscuits and sausage gravy for breakfast, but mostly to see my favorite server, Annie . . .

We were out to breakfast the other morning, when in walked a woman and her husband, probably in their 70s I’d guess. The hostess seated them at the next table over. I couldn’t help but notice. This woman was beautiful and so classy. I felt compelled to compliment her . . .

Hard to believe I painted and published this book a few years ago. I remember I was unable to paint at that time. Grief had really stalled my creativity. I decided to just splash around and explore simple paint and water and see what happened before I tackled some bigger canvases to hang in the house . . .

My dear friend and publicist has asked me to do a video to describe where my art comes from. I love the idea of taking highlights from all of the videos and pictures I’ve taken over the years to show what comes out in my art every day. It reminds me of the poetry prompt “I am from” that’s become so popular and I plan to record that for the audio along with some good music . . .

The harvest season is in full swing. Sunny days and this beautiful lake can lure you into believing it’s still summer, but I can feel the chill in the air . . .

The last couple days…I can feel it. Fall is on the way. The mornings are cooler. The hottest hot is over for us. The peaches are finally ripe. Local's summer is a season here . . .

This is the most powerful week of the year for me personally. A lot of monumental life altering things have happened during this calendar week over the course of my life . . .