I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m thrilled with the paintings I’ve been working on these past few weeks.

Thrilled—because all winter, my desire to paint had vanished. I stopped seeing the world through a painter’s eyes. Artists, photographers, creators are observers, endlessly noticing color, shapes, shadows, and hidden vignettes in the ordinary. I love seeing the world that way.

But last winter, that lens went dark. Scenes that once begged to be painted left me numb. It was unsettling, like losing a sense. On top of that, shingles and COVID drained my energy, locking me further away from my easel.

Yet creativity is stubborn. It lingers in the subconscious, waiting. Like muscle memory, it can flicker back to life with patience and practice. And now, here I am: grateful for time to nurture my garden into a living palette, to lose myself in brushstrokes again.

My only other commitment? Muddy Duck Yoga twice a week—a wonderful ritual that fuels both my body and my art.

After months of drought, I’m finding my rhythm again. And it feels fantastic.

It started with surrender. Letting go of expectations and feeing lupin joy again.