Our problems are like rocks. We’re all carrying around a bunch of rocks in our backpack through this life. We take responsibility for our “rocks” and carry them around like we’re supposed to. It’s healthy and wise to take responsibility for our own things. To do this well, we have to clearly know whose rocks are whose. Taking responsibility is tricky . . .

I won the gene pool lottery in my family. It’s true. I got all of my parents’ good traits and only some of their bad–WAY better than ALL of their bad traits and only some of their good. We all inherit good things and bad from our families, but it’s so much more complex than that . . .

It got me thinking. What do we carry in our schedule? What is hidden to us there? What does our schedule communicate to others? Whether we know it or not, our schedules reveal something about our priorities and how we see the world.  I’ve been looking at where I put effort, what I prioritize, and  what  that communicates to others . . .

I’m painting a series right now inspired in part by the ice along the lake. I’m forever intrigued by the cracks, lines, and layers of the ice. I love the patterns and how it shows up against the darkness and depth of the water. What lies beneath?

I left the big city of Nashville for a small town. I left a downtown skyline for the Lake Michigan shoreline. I gave away at least 95% of my possessions. People said things like, “But you could sell this and make money.” “Won’t you need some of these things?” “I don’t think I could let go of so many of my possessions.” I was ready to let everything go . . .

The first year after someone dies is commonly called a year of firsts. It means the first year without. First holidays without...first birthday without...first everything without . . .

I love Christmas. The entire holiday season really. I plan and shop and start early so I can be done in time to enjoy the actual season. I have to protect it or it becomes a busy, buzzy holiday and I miss the joy . . .

Late in the pandemic, I went out to get the mail and as I sorted through it, I found a colorful, sassy postcard from my friend Nan. She included a couple of sentences on the back stating what she loved about me and our friendship. I was absolutely delighted . . .

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because it doesn’t come with all the pressures of Christmas and gifts. We all come together over good food and give thanks. I like the rituals of inviting loved ones to join us and how we all want the same dishes from year to year or it just doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving . . .

I’m in awe of you. All of you. All who have shown me such love and support, such kindness. Over 70 of you made the pilgrimage out to camp to honor the work of grief and celebrate new life . . .

All that love just keeps coming back to me from those who were there for my old life and those from my new life, by those I’ve known all my life and those I just met. We’re all coming together to hold vigil . . .

This book is about the journey of my grief. I feel so proud of how I channeled my grief. I pulled that trauma and devastation out of my body and turned it into poetry and art and made it into a thing. My late husband Dan always said I had to make it into a thing or it didn’t count. I did it. It’s a thing . . .

Lately I’ve spent a lot of time away from painting. I’ve been in big editing mode! The book is almost done. I’m anxiously waiting on proofs now. Sorting through hours of audio content and turning it into videos. Making playlists. All to support my new book, The Mysterious Gifts of Grief . . .

I’ve been working on wrapping up the paintings for my upcoming book that’s coming out in October.  My graphic designer and I are working through the manuscript layout now. I’ve been away from it for a long time. Scrolling through, I flashed on a very specific moment in the ICU with my late husband, Dan . . .

The brain likes representational art because we are wired to recognize patterns. We like looking at a painting of the beach as it directly calls up our beach memories and experiences . . .

This past week marked my late husband's birthday and death anniversary. They're only a week apart . . .

I loved my old life with my late husband. I was incredibly well loved by an amazing man with whom I was deeply in love and I had known nearly all my life . . .

There’s a full two-page spread in my sketchbook that says in huge letters, “IF YOU DON’T LIKE YOUR MARKS, YOU HAVE TO MOVE DIFFERENTLY.” What a breakthrough! I can’t believe something so simple could be so transformative in my painting practice . . .

So many find themselves caught up in the exhaustion of grief or despair. We might be numb or just worn out or plain depressed. I’m all for the miracle of modern medicine for those who need it, certainly, but sometimes I wonder if grief is so socially unacceptable that we call it depression . . .

After my late husband died, deep grief left me unable to enjoy almost anything. Nothing served as entertainment. I had no attention span for movies, books, or even television show series. Nothing worked. Even music wasn’t safe. The only thing I could stand was to sit outside, mostly by myself . . .