Shoebox Poetry: Spring Flowers

I am dancing yellow flowers
moss growing on a cracked boulder
dragonfly battles waged through cattail forests
sleeping rocks tucked beneath rotted boards
wide-winged hawks quietly circling prey

I am daring spring sunshine
fields of green miner’s lettuce wet with dew
twisted trees reflected in muddy puddles
colorful floral crowns skipping around a maypole
teeny tiny frogs in a toddler’s hand

I am dandelion fluff wishes
bubbles caught in a spiraling spider web
fat white clouds pressing through a rainbow
afternoons spent reading in a hammock
soft rabbits hiding among wild buttercups

I am lively starry jubilation
moon struck open-armed happiness
deep water thick-boned delight
galaxy swirling sweet poetry madness
freckle-faced daisy ringed freedom


Shoebox Poetry: This is the third poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. I love the joy in this photo and I hope my words match its beauty and grace. Happy first week of spring!

Photography: Local Cemetery

“We’re all ghosts. We all carry, inside us, people who came before us.”
-Liam Callanan

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmothers lately. Both of them were strong ladies filled with secrets and heartache. Neither of them lived a happy and fulfilled life. They passed onto me a restlessness and a sharp sadness I feel in my bones.

I don’t have a place to visit them, so for our photography lesson today I took my daughter and mother to our small local cemetery. It was a peaceful morning and I walked around thinking about what legacy I will leave my children. How do I want them to remember me?

I keep coming back to the idea that they need to see me happy. It’s by far the greatest gift I can give them—a legacy of peacefulness and joy. They need to see me publish my book, be active and strong, and cultivate my own happiness. I want to leave them a legacy far different than the one passed onto me. I have work to do.

It’s not my photography day, but I want to share these photos with you anyway. I edited them boldly, exaggerating the colors, and I hope you find something interesting in them.


  • Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW

#100DayProject: Watercolors-Week 4

“Accept yourself, love yourself, and keep moving forward. If you want to fly, you have to give up what weighs you down.”-Roy T. Bennett

Welcome to the fourth week of my #100DayProject. Before we get to the watercolors, I want to share with you a moment of self-discovery I had this morning while journaling. Although I’ve had similar “aha” moments in the past, this time it feels a bit deeper. Maybe you’ll relate.

As a parent we want our kids to have the very best lives. We want them to thrive and be happy. Both my kids are struggling. My son still deals with the effects of two major accidents and my daughter has serious mental health struggles. This has taken from my kids “normal” teenage milestones like getting their driver’s license or attending prom. The picture I had of their teenage years is nothing like what we are experiencing and it breaks my heart. I often don’t know what to do.

These feelings have led me to internalize the belief that their struggles are entirely my fault. I tell myself that if I was a “better” mother they wouldn’t be facing such obstacles. I blame myself so deeply for everything that it’s become a catalyst for self-destructive behavior. I’m not eating right or caring for my body. I’m not nurturing my marriage or my friendships. I’m not even writing like I was.

I keep trying to restart everything, but I can’t seem to do it. This is where the big “aha” happened for me this morning. The reason I’m failing is I’ve decided I deserve to be punished. I failed as a mother and therefore I deserve to be miserable. After all, how can I be happy if my children are not? How can I continue to pursue my dreams when my kids are hurting? Isn’t that selfish? Isn’t that wrong?

Of course, it’s not. I need to lead my family by example. Taking care of my body and meeting my goals will inspire my family and give me more energy to face everything. Allowing the weight of the world to press me down doesn’t help anyone. It seems like such a simple thing to realize, but at the same time, it feels enormous. I’m not sure how to translate this into action yet, but it feels like a wobbly step in the right direction.

Now, let’s talk about watercolor! This week I focused on happiness and light—things I’m seeking to call into my life again. My painting time has become a great counterbalance to the heavy stuff I’ve been processing in my journal. My skill level has remained the same, but I’m okay with that. Right now it’s not about growth—it’s about survival and joy. 

I’d love to know if you can relate to my story or have a favorite painting or haiku. Thanks for following my blog and for always cheering me on. Happy Wednesday!


#1
magical forest
dancing brightly in my dreams
help me stand taller

#2
golden shiny sun
deep within my mystic core
heal my broken heart

#3
budding shamrock luck
shimmy shimmy sway and shake
boogie down spring street

#4
blurry-eyed flowers
wake from their long winter rest
see them jump and play


52 Photo Challenge: Week 11-Green

“The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone
For the first time, now for the first time seen.”-D. H. Lawrence

This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to capture something green. My mother, daughter, and I caught a break between storms and took pictures along the American River and in downtown Folsom. It was a lovely day with plenty of green things to catch my eye. We all needed this time together.

Things with my daughter are hard. Last night we went to see the brilliant film “Everything Everywhere All at Once” for a second time and it struck me how much the battle I’m fighting with my daughter’s mental illness is like that horrible black bagel. Her brain tells her so many lies I often feel like I’m at war with her mental illness. Maybe I need to find a way to download some kick-ass martial arts skills or, better yet, find a way to wield my kindness like a weapon.

I sobbed last night in the kitchen for a solid five minutes and then pulled myself back together. What we are doing isn’t working well enough. I’m calling her mental health team again today and asking for more help. I’m exhausted, but I’m hopeful. To quote the film, “When I choose to see the good side of things, I’m not being naive. It is strategic and necessary. It’s how I learned to survive through everything.” I also love this quote, “The only thing I do know is that we have to be kind. Please, be kind. Especially when we don’t know what’s going on.”

Thank you to everyone who reads my blog and spreads kindness. Your comments mean the world to me. Let me know what photo you like best this week. I’m quite partial to the little mushrooms (#2) and the weird cactus-looking weed (#5). I got muddy for both shots but totally worth it. Have a wonderful week!


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  • Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
  • If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com

52 Photo Challenge
Week 1: Bokeh
Week 2: Silhouette
Week 3: Black and White
Week 4: Motion Blur
Week 5: Texture
Week 6: Framing
Week 7: Leading Lines
Week 8: Negative Space
Week 9: Patterns
Week 10: Symmetry

Shoebox Poetry: Blurry Eddie

You carve our names “E+K”
into the ancient oak behind
your daddy’s church in hopes
I’ll see, but I’ve grown 
tired of playing your endless

games. My drawers overflow with
your teeny-tiny top-secret 
messages penned on newspaper scraps—
“I miss you,” “meet me
behind the old Bulto Market,”

and “kiss me, dearest Kate,
I’m dying for you.”
Just
words. I need more than
blue-eyed winks and brief
hidden embraces. My love needs

sunshine—warm, bright, radiating fire
so vibrant it can’t be
stoppered or hidden. Explosive volcano
love, running thick down our
bodies. Popcorn love, loud hot

buttery passion devoured with both
hands. Instead, you give me
your blurry photograph standing at
301 Caroline Street, our secret
kissing place. You write in

sweeping curvy letters “this is
not very clear, but it’s 
still me. Eddie.”
Blurry love
is what you offered, thinking 
I’d accept, but I deserve

someone who wants our love
to be broadcasted, shouted, screamed
into the streets. Bullhorn loud
love. Free to be me
love. So, I chased you

onto the old bridge, calling
out through hot tears, “choose 
all of me or none 
of me.”
The bright moonlight 
stretched my dark shadow so 

it covered you entirely as 
you walked away without looking 
back. My young love never
wavered, but yours wasn’t brave
enough to fight. It’s funny

now, finding your thoughtless dare
scrawled in ink, “see how
long you can keep this.”

I kept it forever, blurry
Eddie. Not for you, though

for me.

I stayed in focus.



Shoebox Poetry: This is the second poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. I don’t have any idea who Eddie was, but I wanted to rewrite a possible old love story as a moment of empowerment for my grandmother. She was a fierce woman and I like to think she kept this photograph as a reminder of her strength. If someone out there happens to know Eddie, sorry. This is pure fiction and I’m sure he is/was a lovely man.

#100DayProject: Watercolors-Week 3

“All you really need to do is accept this moment fully. You are then at ease in the here and now and at ease with yourself.”-Eckhart Tolle

Welcome to the third week of my #100DayProject. While I started watercolor painting as a way to combat my perfectionism, it has become an important part of my morning ritual. I use the early morning hours to process my emotions and combat my anxiety. Watercolors have blended into my routine so easily that it feels as if I’ve been doing it far longer than 21 days.

Things I discovered this week:

  • Start every painting with a wash of light color
  • Taping the paper to the board is highly satisfying
  • Pulling off the tape is equally satisfying
  • I work best when I have a source image
  • I need to accept my limitations

Although I’m still enjoying the painting process, my skill level is limiting my creativity. My challenge going forward will be to see what happens after I accept this uncomfortable feeling. Thanks for following me on another adventure and being so supportive. Let me know if you have a favorite painting or haiku. I love hearing from you.


#1
fuzzy purple dears
hazy purple cloudy years
don’t forget to breathe

#2
snowy wonderland
pine-scented fantasy world
come get lost with me

#3
fall with me, Alice
down another rabbit hole
where purple skies sing

#4
something calls to me
in the ancient borogoves
do you hear it too?



52 Photo Challenge: Week 10-Symmetry

“Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”
-William Blake

This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to capture something with symmetry. Although it’s such a simple concept, I found it extremely challenging. I started out looking for mirrored images and reflections, but every image I took felt flat and boring. My perfectionist’s brain was narrowing my vision and I just couldn’t find anything that worked.

My solution—take more photos and think less. The bottles above are a great example. While they seem to contain a symmetrical quality to me, they do have variations in shade and labels. Do they still work? I’m not sure. Does it matter? Not really. The idea of this challenge is to train my eye to look for different elements in a photo. By this definition, I’m doing just fine.

These photos were taken on a rainy day in downtown Lincoln and on the road to and from Camp Far West with my mom and daughter. Let me know which shot you think best uses the concept of symmetry and which is your favorite. Have a wonderful week!


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  • Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
  • If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com

52 Photo Challenge
Week 1: Bokeh
Week 2: Silhouette
Week 3: Black and White
Week 4: Motion Blur
Week 5: Texture
Week 6: Framing
Week 7: Leading Lines
Week 8: Negative Space
Week 9: Patterns

Shoebox Poetry: Sunday Pose

pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles

but not before

we wash in the family tub
first dad and then my ten brothers
then mother
then me
        cold
        dirt
        shame
        s i n
it absorbs deep into 
        my   soft skin
        my   thick blood
        my   frail bones
leaving me scabbed
broken apart
dirtier than before
but mother covers it all with white

smile, she says
but I’m thinking of willow trees
carving my name with a sharp knife
pomegranate juice running down my chin
screaming at the stars

straighten up, she says
but I’m thinking of foggy forests
walking barefoot through mossy earth
honey dripping from my fingertips
bathing in the moonlight

be sweet, she says
but I’m thinking of roaring waves
sunlight on freckled shoulders
seaweed stuck between toes
salt water taffy kisses

be quiet, she says
but I’m thinking of throwing things
messy hair and dirty fingernails
cadmium yellow, ultramarine blue
painting my own life

but not before

pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles


Shoebox Poetry: Last week I rediscovered an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. This poem is the first in a series of poems using those images as inspiration. Today’s photo is of my grandmother as a young woman. There is no date, but the sweeping handwriting on the back says “Kate, Gill St.” And yes, she told me her entire family bathed in the same water every Sunday before church. Can you even imagine?

The Birds | A Short Story

Stepping through the maze of twisting vines covering mother’s garden shed, I open the round wooden door and enter without her permission. I need to see what she’s been hiding from me. A sharp, tangy smell fills the air and my bare feet squish into the wet soil. I can’t believe I’m finally doing this.

Streaks of light follow me into the dusty darkness giving me a narrow view of the interior of the shed. I see no shelves. No jars. No baskets. Nothing at all but an empty room. Although it’s small, the dark space above me is filled with scuffling sounds and feels much larger than it looks from the outside. I’m not afraid of the truth, I say to myself and take another step.

Reaching my hands above me to check for cobwebs, I stand on tiptoes and peer into the shadowy rafters. I can’t see anything, but the ruffling sounds increase and I freeze. A moment later, something small and round zips through the air and lands on the fingertips of my left hand.

Remembering all of the puncture wounds on my mother’s body, I brace myself for an attack, but nothing happens. After a few deep breaths, I gather my courage and rotate my hand slowly. The unknown critter hops several times until its heartbeat pounds into the curve of my outstretched palm.

For years I’ve been convinced my mother has been hiding the world within her shed and now I’m certain this living thing in my hand is the key to unlocking it. Lifting it closer to my face and into a streak of sunlight, I see it’s a little black bird with glossy unblinking eyes and a bright orange beak. 

It’s the same type of bird I see perched in the peach tree outside the kitchen window every morning while I eat breakfast. I see them in the evening too, sitting in the thin branches of the birch trees while I play in the yard behind the house. Why has mother hidden them in her shed? The bird in my hand coos as if trying to answer and I bring it even closer to my face.

“Hello, little bird.”

I’m not supposed to be here, but the bird doesn’t seem too concerned. It chirps loudly and the sound is answered by hundreds of flapping wings above me. Wispy, dark feathers fall like autumn leaves onto the braids of my hair, the curve of my freckled cheek, and the tip of my upturned nose. 

Each place they touch tingles with electricity and heat, moving inward through my body. When the sensation reaches my gut, it explodes. It’s as if the core of my body has been waiting for this moment to truly come alive. I don’t know why my mother tried to hide this from me, but I found it anyway. The truth rushes through me.

All the times I stood in front of the large mirror in my mother’s room and spoke to my reflection as if it might be able to answer me, I wasn’t wrong. Another world does exist, layered beneath ours. It calls to me. Closing my eyes, I picture myself sprouting wings and diving into fluffy pink cotton candy clouds. The world below looks much smaller than it did before, or have I grown bigger?

The birds continue to fly around me, cooing and singing in a language I can partly understand. Mimsy. Snozzwangers. Heffalump. Nerkle. As their wings brush against my cheeks and arms, the words flow through me bringing images of fantastical delights. If I could stay here forever I know I’d learn their language and their secrets. I could become like them.

The metallic thud of a car door closing silences the birds in an instant. Mother’s home from the store and if she finds me in here I’ll be in big trouble. I open my eyes and the birds have all scattered—returned to the dark shadows of the rafters. I want to call out promises to return, but I don’t want to risk being heard and I’m not sure I’ll be able to come back. Instead, I walk out the door and close it as quietly as I can behind me.

I’m a mess, covered in feathers and smelling like the sticky mud on the bottom of the shed. Without looking toward the house, I run through the thick birch tree grove to the shallow creek which separates our property from those of Old Man Stefan. Birds circle and scream in the sky above me, but I don’t know if they are the birds from the shed. I can’t make out what they are saying.

Mother will be calling me soon to help cook dinner, so I dangle my feet into the cold creek and splash water onto my bare legs and arms. It’s icy cold and I shiver slightly. The sun has moved to a place behind the trees and the sky has a golden tinge that will soon grow purple.

The water flows slowly, causing several clumps of vibrant green algae to wave gently. A small gray spotted fish darts out from behind a pile of smooth river rocks. It opens and closes its mouth and I have the strangest thought—if I stick my head in the water will I be able to hear it speak?

Although I know my mother will be calling me soon, I have to try. Laying on my belly on the grassy shore, I plunge my head into the water and listen intently. The rushing sound of the water as it flows over the rocks is occasionally interrupted by an odd popping sound, but I don’t hear any voices. Forcing my eyes open, I see the fish mere inches from my nose. Its large, round eyes stare at me and its mouth continues to move but I don’t understand what it’s trying to say.

Surfacing, I shake the water from my braids and tell myself I’m being silly. The birds didn’t speak to me and neither can this fish. The certainty I felt in the shed has faded and I’m far less confident any of it is real. It’s as if a magical silk was drawn across my eyes coloring the world and is now removed again. I’m suddenly very tired. I cover my face with my hands.

Minutes pass and I only lift my head when I hear the sound of several birds landing in the trees across the water. They stare at me with dozens of shiny black eyes and the warming sensation in my gut flares to life again. I have a feeling I’m supposed to do something, but I don’t know what. 

A single black feather floats from the trees and circles above the water. I watch it dance back and forth before it lands delicately on the surface, balanced like a water bug on its spindly legs. Before the current can rush it away, the same grey spotted fish swims frantically to it and bites at its soft uneven edges. I have the sense it’s trying to tell me something so I lean closer to the water.

“You want to be a bird?”

I’m not sure why I say it, but incredibly, the fish nods its head and stares back at me. Okay, I think, I can do this. Lowering my hand into the cold water, the fish quickly swims into my palm. I close my fingers around its wiggly body and pull it out of the water. I stare at its round fish eye for a minute before closing my own eyes.

Using all my imagination and concentration, I picture one of the birds in the shed. I concentrate on the way the feathers fold across the body and the way the beak curves on the top. The fish wiggles in my hand and then goes limp. I open my eyes slowly, afraid I may have killed it, but it worked! I did it!

A small black bird, exactly like those in the shed or those in the trees staring at me now, sits in my palm blinking at me. I giggle as it shakes its wings, nods its head, and flies into the sky. Splashing around in the muddy dirt beside the creek, I watch the bird soar overhead diving and flipping through the clouds. It seems so happy. I’ve never been more proud of myself.

“Ta-Ting! Ta-Ting! Ta-Ting!”

Mother rings the metal triangle by the back door three times which means it’s time for me to go inside and help with dinner. I wave goodbye to the fish-turned-bird and skip my way back home. I don’t remember ever feeling this happy.

Mother puts on her favorite jazz record and luckily doesn’t seem to notice my muddy feet. She hands me the apron covered in lemons and sets me to work peeling potatoes and carrots. She seems lost in thought and I’m happy to work in silence as she seasons the chicken, adds my veggies to the tray, and puts it in the oven.

While dinner cooks, I do my evening chores. I sweep the kitchen and living room, dust everything, set the table, and change into a nice dress for dinner. Mother and I eat in silence, passing the rose-colored salt-and-pepper shakers back and forth. She seems in a good mood and I’m lost in thought. Dinner passes quickly.

After dinner, we do the dishes side-by-side, like always. She washes and I dry. She hasn’t noticed any change in me and I’m doing my best to act normal. 

I’m not supposed to know about the magic of the birds, but it’s all I can think about. I wonder what other magic I can do. Does the creature have to want to be changed? Can I change things into something other than birds? Could I change Old Man Stefan’s mean cat into a toad? The thought of the scraggly mean cat croaking and jumping across the fence makes me laugh. Mother notices.

“What’s so funny?”

Mother stops washing the dishes and stares at me with her hands on her hips. I know this stern look and I try hard to keep a neutral face. I don’t want to give away my secret.

“Oh, I was thinking about a funny joke I heard at school…”

It’s a stupid lie and I immediately try and think of a joke I could use if she asks me what it is, but her attention has switched to my hair. She pulls a black feather out of my braid and holds it up to the light. Her face goes from slightly annoyed to angry.

“How could you? I told you to stay out of the shed because it’s dangerous, but did you listen? Of course, you didn’t. You think rules don’t apply to you—little miss perfect. It’s because you think you are better than me, isn’t it? You think the birds won’t attack you, huh? You are wrong, child. You have no idea what you are playing with.”

Without drying her hands and before I can say anything in response, she slaps me hard across the face. I stumble backward and drop the towel onto the floor. She picks it up and throws it onto the counter, knocking over two glasses that tumble to the floor and shatter.

“Look what you made me do! You are an ungrateful brat! Go to your room. I don’t want to see your face anymore.”

Rage prickles through me like a spiny monster trying to get out. Images of throwing things and slamming doors run through my mind, but I know if I act on those feelings everything will get much worse. I’ve never seen my mother so mad, so I do my best to appear calm by hanging my apron on the hook by the door, walking slowly to my bedroom, and shutting the door with a delicate click.

Throwing myself onto the bed, I scream into my pillow until it’s soaked through with tears and my body goes limp. Rolling onto my back, I stare out the window at a crescent moon and wonder if the birds in the shed are still singing mimsy and truffula. Mother will be doing paperwork by candlelight at her desk. I wish I could ask her about the birds. I wish we could talk about anything.

Mother painted my room pale yellow when she was pregnant with me and it’s remained the same color. I scan the three shelves above my bed, looking at my collection of neatly arranged stuffed animals, framed artwork, and little glass figurines. The kids in my class have much messier rooms, but I’ve always been proud of how much I can be trusted to care for my things.

On the shelf closest to me, tucked between a reproduction of “Starry Night” and a stuffed blue penguin sits a glossy glass black bird with a delicate tiny beak of pale orange. I’ve got a collection of ten birds, all given to me by my aunt Nona as birthday presents. She wraps them in pristine white silk and includes a note saying, “Happy Birthday little bird” in curling cursive letters. I wonder if these gifts were meant to be hints at what I discovered in the shed. Does she know? Can she do the same magic?

Without thinking, I reach my hand toward the bird and call it to me.

“Come here, little bird.”

The warming sensation in my gut returns as the bird shakes its wings, chirps softly, and glides from the shelf to my outstretched palm. It breathes slowly and I stroke its soft feathers. It’s alive! I made this bird real just by thinking about it. A rush of excitement thunders through me and suddenly I’m giddy with possibility.

“Come, little birds, come and play with me!”

Singing the words as brightly and cheery as I can, the effect is immediate. A swirling mass of wings and chirps fills the air as the nine figurines come alive and land on the bed around me. Before I can say anything to them, several paintings around the room shake as colorful fantastical birds wiggle out of the frames and join the blackbirds on the bed. These are fuzzy and colorful, unclear but beautiful.

The chorus of birds sings around me. Woozles. Borgroves. Runcible. Versula. As the words worm through me and tell me stories of lands unlike mine I’m dazed with wonder. Tales of horned villains, talking bears, and flying broomsticks. I’m swept away by it all until I hear my mother’s voice in the hallway.

“We need to talk.”

Her voice sounds soft and I know she’s sorry for what happened earlier, but she’ll quickly return to anger if she finds all these birds in my room. I’m not sure what to do, but the birds seem to sense the danger and fly quickly into my open closet. I shut the door softly as my mother walks in. She looks at my ruffled blankets and at the closed closet door and frowns.

“What’s going on here?”

“Nothing.”

It’s absolutely not convincing, but surprisingly she lets it go. Smoothing the blankets on my bed she pats the spot beside her and I sit close enough our legs are touching. She’s got a new bandage on her wrist, covered in tiny dots of blood. She grabs my hands and squeezes them hard in hers.

“You don’t know the horrors of this world, and I’m glad for it. I don’t like being like this with you, but it’s my job to protect you. Please, please, forget about the shed and the birds. Okay? They are not for you and it will only lead to you getting hurt.”

“How?”

The word escapes before I can stop myself, but she doesn’t yell. She squeezes my hands harder and speaks in a low, sad tone.

“They will show you things you will want and can never have, my child. Those worlds are not for you and will only make you hate the one we live in. Forget the birds. Come and listen to music with me in the parlor. I’ve made hot tea and we can forget all this unpleasantness. Okay?”

I nod my head and, as she kisses my cheek, I look toward the closet and know the birds are waiting for me. For now, I must keep this power to myself, but someday I’ll be able to let the birds fly free and I’ll join them. We will travel to all the worlds together and maybe I’ll even convince my mother to join me.


Author’s note: This story began as a writing assignment meant to explore my own legacy of writing and how I came to be a writer. I had the idea of using birds to represent books and equating the act of writing to magic. Partway through the story, I got into my head and doubted the very premise of the idea. I was stalled out for weeks, but I finally pushed through and finished it. My dear editor friend said it reminds her of a Studio Ghibli film and I couldn’t think of a better compliment to receive. Let me know what you think and I hope you have a wonderful day.

#100DayProject: Watercolors-Week 2

“The purest and most thoughtful minds are those which love color the most.”
― John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice

Welcome to the second week of my watercolor #100DayProject. After some experimentation, I’ve settled into a comfortable morning rhythm of painting and journaling. It occurred to me this week how both serve the same purpose—release and freedom. Both activities are about letting go, self-discovery, and seeing where it takes me. Taken in this context, it’s impossible to do it wrong. What a wonderful thought!

Things I’ve learned this week:

  • Stop painting before everything turns brown
  • Wet-on-wet is very enjoyable, but I need to go slower
  • Trying to copy other paintings can be frustrating
  • My emotional state affects the color scheme
  • I have no idea what I’m doing and it’s totally okay

I’m still trying too hard to control the paint. I ripped up and threw away two paintings this week and started over. The need to be perfect is still very present and I’m trying really hard to separate the work from any kind of judgment. I remain, as always, a work in progress. Thank you for following along on my journey and for all the wonderful comments I received last week.


Here are my offerings for Week 2:

#1
lavender ladies
standing straight-backed and quite tall
do you ever fall?

#2
swirling galaxy
locked within my busy mind
yearning to be free

#3
what dark secrets hide
behind your bright red brick wall?
I want to see all

#4
happy little sun
shining brightly down on me
do you see me try?