The Winds of Change

When Synchronicity Becomes Your Compass

There’s a moment in every season … creative, personal, or spiritual … when you can feel the shift before you can name it.

A soft stirring.
A subtle pulling.
A breeze that wasn’t there yesterday.

And sometimes … the winds of change arrive with such uncanny timing that you can’t help but laugh at the synchronicity of it all.

These past few weeks, I’ve watched the threads of my life, my business, and my story tug in directions I didn’t plan, but absolutely needed. Conversations at shows, unexpected opportunities, people crossing my path at exactly the right moment … it’s as if the wind carried them straight to my door.

And what I’m learning, again, is that synchronicity is often God’s gentle way of saying:

“Keep going. You’re aligned. I’m here. The next step is already unfolding.”

When Change Becomes Invitation

Sometimes change comes as a storm that rearranges everything.
Other times, it arrives as a whisper that asks you to listen before you leap.

Running an ever-evolving business … especially one built from soul work, creativity, healing, and intuition … requires a willingness to pivot, soften, grow, release, and become.

It means trusting the winds when they shift.
It means following the direction your spirit is being guided toward, even before the map appears.
It means honoring every nudge, every alignment, every “coincidental” encounter that feels too meaningful to ignore.

Synchronicity isn’t random.
It’s relational.

It’s the quiet evidence of a God who weaves our story with intention, bringing the right people, ideas, and opportunities at the exact moment we are ready to receive them.

Synchronicities in Business (That Don’t Feel Like Business at All)

As my own work expands … through candle launches, Soulful Saturdays, the book, the journals, workshops, retreats, and all the threads weaving into The Silver Bohemian … I’m noticing something:

Every new door appears when I decide to honor where I actually am, not where I think I “should” be.

And when I stop resisting what is changing, everything starts aligning.

People arrive who speak my language.
Ideas connect like constellations.
Old ways fall away without the grief they once carried.
New pathways shimmer with possibility.

These synchronicities feel like wind chimes at the edge of my awareness … delicate reminders that I am guided, supported, and never walking this path alone.

You Don’t Have to Be Ready. You Have to Be Open.

The winds of change don’t ask for perfection.
They ask for openness.

To let go.
To lean in.
To trust what’s unfolding.
To follow the subtle breeze where it’s leading.
To believe that God is bringing you toward the very thing you’ve been preparing for, often without realizing it.

The business you started years ago isn’t the business you’re meant to carry forever.
It evolves because you evolve.
And when you shift, everything connected to your calling shifts, too.

Synchronicity simply helps you keep pace with your own becoming.

A Thought to Carry

Pay attention to the breeze, not the storm.
Synchronicity is often found in the smallest shifts, the quietest invitations, and the unexpected conversations that feel like home.
Follow what moves.
Trust what aligns.
Let the winds of change carry you where you’re growing next.

“When the winds of change blow, some build walls; others build windmills.”
— Chinese Proverb

“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it,
but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes.
So is everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
— John 3:8, NKJV

Doing & Being

When Your Life Becomes the Work of Wholeness

This weekend reminded me that the most beautiful conversations rarely happen in planned spaces. They happen between the booths, between the breaths, between strangers who feel like they’ve known each other longer than a few minutes.

I met some incredible souls … mothers, caregivers, teachers, and travelers … all of us doing the work in our own way. One woman told me she had walked the entire Camino de Santiago with her husband, step by step across the miles of Spain. Her story carried her grit, she shared her reluctance about the accommodations … how she thought she couldn't finish and almost quit … then she found the courage that she could, and she did!!! That makes three people I know that have completed this pilgrimage. If you don’t know what it is, I encourage you to look it up.

These conversations are the kind that linger long after the telling. Others spoke of raising children, caring for aging parents, involvement in the community with their restaurants that I had frequented, or teaching generations of students to find their voice. Each story held its own quiet reverence. Some conversations began with talk of upcoming shows or creative projects, but as it often does, the dialogue drifted toward the deeper why … the heart work.

When someone asked what I do for a living, I smiled and said, “I help people remember it is okay to allow time for themselves, and to get reacquainted with who they are through art, story, and stillness.”
That’s the simplest way I can describe it. Because what began years ago as crafting candles and sewing denim has grown into something much larger: a practice of wholeness.

There was a time I thought “doing the work” meant long hours and steady output, always striving toward the next goal. But over the years, I’ve learned that being the work means letting your life become the message … that how you show up, listen, and create carries as much weight as the finished piece itself.

Wholeness work isn’t a business plan or a product line. It’s a way of living, one that honors the rhythms of rest and renewal, creativity and contemplation. It’s in the quiet act of pouring wax with intention. It’s in the conversations that turn into prayers without ever saying “amen.” It’s in the art that speaks what words can’t.

Each time I attend an event, I notice how the exchange has shifted. I may start by talking about a candle or a piece of jewelry, but somehow, we always end up talking about life … grief, growth, faith, the search for meaning. That’s when I know the work is working through me.

Maybe that’s what it means to truly live your purpose: not to separate your calling from your daily life, but to weave it into everything you touch.

When I listen to others share their stories, I see reflections of my own … the healing that happens when we give ourselves permission to be real, to be seen, to be unfinished and radiant all at once.

So yes, I’m doing the work.
But more than that, I’m learning to be the work.
To live the peace I speak of. To embody the creativity I encourage.
To show up to the table … or the market … as a whole and human being, not a finished product.

Because in the end, that’s what draws us together: the willingness to be present, to listen, and to let our light spill into the world one conversation, one creation, one encounter at a time.

A Thought to Carry

So here’s a realization I am having in this season … maybe “doing the work” isn’t about adding more to your list. Maybe it’s about allowing who you are to pour into everything you already do.
Show up. Create with love. Be present.
Let your life be the work.

“The measure of a life, after all, is not its duration, but its donation.”
— Corrie ten Boom

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men.”
— Colossians 3:23 (NKJV)

The Light We Give: A Candle Maker’s Journey of Healing, Faith & Everyday Gifting

There’s something sacred about lighting a candle: the quiet flicker, the soft scent that fills the room, the way one small flame can turn an ordinary space into a sanctuary.

Long before I ever poured my first candle, I was in love with them. Years ago, I worked for a company called PartyLite, and that’s where I first discovered the art of quality … how fragrance and wax could hold memory and emotion. It was also there that I fell in love with the story of Mabel Baker, the woman whose legacy began it all on the shores of Cape Cod. I was drawn to the purity of her ingredients, her integrity, and her pioneering spirit. Her famous bayberry candles carried not just fragrance, but meaning … a symbol of good fortune and heartfelt tradition.

Those early days planted something in me: an appreciation for craftsmanship and a respect for the stories that live within what we create. The pride I take in my candles today was born in that season, as a young stay-at-home mom, learning, growing, and finding purpose in small acts of making.

When my first husband became terminally ill, everything changed. Clean ingredients became more than a preference; they became a form of care. I wanted to know what was in the air we breathed, the products I used, and what I brought into our home. So, I taught myself how to make candles, not just for beauty, but for peace of mind. Every pour became a quiet prayer, each scent a whisper of healing and hope.

That season also deepened my appreciation for essential oils … how they support the body’s ability to restore balance and harmony. I’m not opposed to medicine, but I do believe that we often reach for quick fixes when our bodies are really asking for rest, nourishment, and stillness. I’ve learned that the body has a remarkable design, one created by God to heal, adapt, and renew when we honor it.

As I began to pour, I had no fancy tools or custom packaging. My first candles were made in small jelly jars, and my first wax melts were poured into an ice tray mold from my kitchen. They weren’t perfect, but they were honest, useful, and made with love. Those early creations taught me something important: simplicity can still carry soul. What mattered most wasn’t the jar or the label; it was the intention behind the light.

Over time, my candle-making evolved from humble beginnings at my kitchen table to what has now become The Silver Bohemian. But at its heart, the mission remains the same: to offer meaningful, mindful gifts that speak love in ordinary moments.

After losing several people I loved, many of them around the holidays, I began to see giving differently. I realized how precious the now really is, and how love shouldn’t have to wait for a special occasion. I no longer wanted to give because the calendar told me to; I wanted to give because my heart did.

So I began to send small tokens of light … a candle for a friend who’d had a hard week, a simple note tucked inside, “I thought of you.” That became my quiet mission: to make thoughtful, handcrafted gifts available not only for myself, but for others who wanted to share love in the same way … just because.

As my wellness practice deepened, my candles found a new rhythm, woven into the rituals of my day.

In the morning, I light one before journaling, a gentle cue to breathe and invite clarity before the day begins.

In the evening, another candle marks the slowing down, softening the edges of the day with peace and gratitude.

In my studio, I light them while I paint, write, or sew. Each flame anchors me in presence as scent mingles with inspiration.

And in client sessions, my candles add another layer of comfort, transforming the room into a sanctuary of calm, where the body and spirit can rest, release, and restore.

Light became both my creative language and my healing one, an alchemy that connects craft, care, and spirit in every space I enter.

Every time I make a batch of candles, I think of the love I’m sending out … the people who will receive them, the warmth they’ll bring, and the reason I began making them in the first place. Each candle carries that same intention: that whoever lights it will feel loved, remembered, and wrapped in peace.

Each candle I make is more than wax and wick. It’s a vessel of memory and message.
Some are poured with peace in mind. Others with comfort, joy, or clarity. Each one carries intention: a reflection of how even in dark seasons, light still finds a way to shine through.

I suppose that’s the real alchemy of this work … not just transforming raw ingredients into fragrance and flame, but transforming moments into meaning.

What began as a spark, a young woman inspired by Mabel Baker’s story and her own love of candles,  has grown into something far deeper. From those first jelly jars on my kitchen counter to the curated gift sets I pour today, every candle still begins with the same heart: a love for craft, a reverence for light, and a desire to share it.

A Thought to Carry

When we give light, whether it’s a candle, a word, or a small act of kindness, we’re participating in something sacred. We’re reminding one another that love doesn’t wait for a reason. It simply moves when it feels called.

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.”
— James 1:17 (NKJV)

“Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud.” — Maya Angelou

When Nature Becomes the Medicine

This past weekend, I gave myself permission to pause.
Not because I had everything done … I didn’t.
Not because the calendar said “vacation” … it didn’t.
But because my spirit said, “It’s time.”

I’ve learned that when my soul whispers like that, I need to listen.

The final quarter of the year always carries a certain hum … the busyness of creating, preparing, and sharing the work of my hands. It’s the season when my studio lights glow late into the night and the scent of wax, wood, and essential oils fills the air. I love this rhythm of production … the beauty of bringing ideas into form … yet I also know how easily the pace can shift from sacred to hurried if I’m not grounded.

So I stepped outside.

I traded my planner for a trail and my to-do list for open sky.
I let the quiet rearrange me.
And somewhere between the rustle of the leaves and the sound of water moving over stone, I felt myself exhale.

Nature has always been my medicine.
She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t strive.
She simply becomes … revealing that creation is both an act of stillness and motion, of surrender and becoming.

As I walked, I realized how much this mirrored my own creative process.
Every idea needs its wintering … its quiet unseen time … before it can bloom.
Every season of making begins with a season of listening.

I returned home lighter.

Not because my to-do list had vanished, but because I had remembered who I am beneath the doing … an artist, a vessel, a witness to grace unfolding through the ordinary.

Now, as I continue this last quarter of the year, I do so with fresh eyes and an open heart. I want my work to flow from the same ease I felt under the trees … intentional, unforced, rooted in gratitude.

A Thought to Carry

When you feel the pull to keep producing, remember that rest is not a reward … it’s part of creation. Let stillness refill your cup so what you pour out carries the sweetness of peace.

“He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul.”
— Psalm 23:2–3 (NKJV)

“The earth has music for those who listen.”
— George Santayana

When Timing Meets Alignment

There’s a quiet kind of wisdom that comes with pausing.
It’s not about giving up … it’s about stepping back far enough to see the whole picture.

Recently, I had to make two big decisions: to reschedule my retreat and to realign my book launch. Both were rooted in faith and fueled by purpose. Every detail had been carefully crafted … the vision clear, the energy behind it on fire. And yet, there was this still, unmistakable sense that something was off … not in spirit, but in timing.

I’ve learned to pay attention to those whispers. They don’t roar; they hum softly beneath the surface, a sacred nudge from the One who sees the path from beginning to end. Sometimes, even when we’re walking in full alignment, God asks us to pause … not because we’re on the wrong road, but because He’s preparing something better up ahead.

For years, I’ve believed that alignment meant momentum … that once you found your path, things would naturally fall into place. But what I’m learning in this season is that alignment also invites stillness. It asks for the courage to wait when every part of you wants to sprint. It asks for the faith to trust divine rhythm when your plans seem to unravel.

The truth is, you can be in alignment and still be asked to wait.
That realization is both humbling and freeing.

The retreat I planned was meant to be a gathering of hearts … a sanctuary for rest, creativity, and soulful reconnection. The book, Tattered and Mended, has been a labor of love for over a year, a weaving together of stories about loss, legacy, and renewal. Both hold deep meaning for me. And yet, when the time came to move forward, I sensed a resistance that didn’t come from fear; it came from wisdom.

The kind that says: “Wait. The soil isn’t ready. The hearts meant to receive this haven’t yet arrived.”

That’s not an easy message to hear when you’ve invested your time, heart, and hope. But I’ve been reminded that there is a difference between doing good work and doing it in God’s time. Timing shapes everything … how the message is received, how energy flows, how transformation happens.

I’ve seen it in my creative process over and over again.
A painting that felt stuck suddenly comes alive when I return days later with fresh eyes.
A design idea that seemed uncertain blossoms after a quiet walk or a prayerful pause.
A plan that once felt urgent finds its natural unfolding when I surrender it.

These moments remind me that divine timing isn’t about delay; it’s about alignment on a higher level. It’s the unseen orchestration that ensures we’re not just doing the right thing, but doing it at the right time, with the right people, in the right way.

So, I’ve given myself permission to pause.
To not rush what God is still refining.
To trust that sometimes, slowing down is the most faithful step you can take.

This space between “now” and “not yet” is tender. It can feel like standing in the doorway between what was and what will be … one foot in purpose, the other in patience. But it’s also sacred ground. It’s where faith deepens, clarity returns, and creativity renews itself.

Waiting doesn’t mean nothing is happening. It means unseen things are being set in motion.
It means God is weaving threads we can’t see, preparing connections, opportunities, and outcomes beyond our imagination.

I’ve come to understand that the pause protects the promise.
It gives your vision time to grow its roots before it blooms. It protects your heart from launching too soon out of pressure or perfectionism. It prepares you for the fullness of what’s next, so when it arrives, you can hold it with grace instead of exhaustion.

The older I get, the more I see that waiting is not wasted time. It’s sacred time.
It’s the quiet conversation between you and God that shapes the next chapter.
It’s where your trust muscles strengthen and your creative voice refines.

And maybe that’s the real invitation: to stop equating productivity with progress, and instead see patience as a form of devotion.

When I pray and set my intention, I always pray for this … or something better.

It’s my way of saying, “God, I trust You with what I cannot yet see. If my plan isn’t the best plan, I surrender it so You can make it so.” That prayer has carried me through so many transitions and tender pauses. It’s a reminder that even when I’m uncertain, God’s view is wider than mine: His pace wiser, His plan kinder.

So for now, I wait. I revisit the pages of my book with gentler eyes. I listen for what the retreat wants to become rather than forcing it into what I thought it should be. I let the stillness teach me.

Because in the pause, I find peace again.
In the waiting, I find clarity.
And in both, I find a deeper trust that God’s “not yet” is still a “yes” … just one that’s being shaped for something better.

Maybe the timing wasn’t off at all. Maybe it’s being fine-tuned for something divine.
And I know, when the moment arrives, it will unfold exactly as it was always meant to … gracefully, beautifully, right on time.

Because in the waiting, and in the pause, I know it will be even better than I could imagine.

A Thought to Carry

“Faithfulness isn’t a feeling. It’s a steady movement in the same direction, even when the outcome is still unseen.”
— Ruth Chou Simons

“To everything there is a season,
A time for every purpose under heaven.”

— Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NKJV)

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What Happens When Women Gather

“Sometimes the soul doesn’t need to be fixed.
It just needs to be witnessed in a softer light.”
— P.C.

There are seasons in life when we don’t even realize how quiet we’ve become.
Not the kind of quiet that brings peace … but the kind that comes when our creative voice, our spark, or our sense of belonging fades beneath the noise of doing and caretaking.

That’s where I found myself a two years ago.
I was still creating, still showing up … but not fully alive in the process. My work was meaningful, but my soul was tired. Then one day, I said yes to something that would change everything: a creative retreat.

I didn’t go as a teacher, a curator, or a leader.
I went simply as a woman who needed to breathe again.

Something happened there.
Surrounded by others who were showing up messy and brave, I found my own reflection in their stories.
There was laughter that rose like light, art that flowed without agenda, and moments of silence that felt holy.

The rhythm of paintbrushes … the smell of coffee … conversation … laughter … it all became a kind of homecoming.

Since that time, my path has unfolded in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
I’ve moved from attendee to curator, to writer, to retreat leader. But none of that was about striving.
It was about returning.

Returning to what matters … to creativity, to connection, to presence.

And somewhere in that return, this poem found me.

What Happens When Women Gather

by Porsha Chalmers

What happens when women gather
is more than laughter echoing off painted walls,
more than paint on fingertips or
stories stitched into worn fabric.

It is memory rising …
from the scent of cedar,
from a song half-remembered,
from eyes that say,
"I see you. I still see you."

It is healing,
not loud and sudden,
but a mending kind …
quiet as thread pulling through cloth.
Sure as tea poured into a second cup.

It is remembering who we were
before the world told us otherwise …
and choosing her again.

It is bearing witness …
to grief that shaped us,
to joy that saved us,
to the way our hands know
how to make beauty from broken.

It is sacred.
It is sanctuary.
It is circle, not ladder.
Enough, not hustle.
Becoming, not performing.

When women gather,
We remember:
We were never meant to do this alone.

Every time I read this, I think of the women who’ve sat in circles with me … the ones who showed up with stories, laughter, tears, and courage. I think of how creativity and compassion weave together like thread through cloth.

That’s what Soul Map: The Art of Release is built upon.
It’s a retreat designed to help you remember what’s been waiting quietly within you … to reconnect through sound, movement, and mindful making.

To gather, to breathe, and to find beauty again in the space between.

If your soul has been whispering for rest or renewal, this may be the invitation you’ve been waiting for.

Soul Map: The Art of Release
Madison, Indiana – October 23–26, 2025
Reserve your spot here →

A Thought to Carry

“There is a sacred rhythm to rest, creation, and connection.
When we honor all three, we begin to hear ourselves again.”

May this week bring you moments of stillness that spark something new …
and remind you that the most meaningful journeys often begin in quiet company.

“Circles of women give us back the parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten.”
— Marian Woodman

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Love, Time, and a Muscadine Vine

Twelve years ago, I stood barefoot in the mud beside my dad as a gentle fall rain began to fall. The ground was cool and soft beneath my feet … the kind of damp that carries the scent of leaves, earth, and endings about to become beginnings.

We were planting two muscadine shoots in my yard. No more than twig-like stems, really. Spindly, small, and unimpressive to anyone but us. But we believed in them.

The feel of Georgia clay between my toes and the sound of rain tapping the earth is etched in my memory, as is the way my dad and I worked quietly … no big declarations, just love in action. It wasn’t just about planting vines. It was about rooting something for the future, something that would grow alongside the life I was just beginning … and a legacy for when he was gone.

Because that same fall, I met Jim.

And though neither of us could’ve predicted the chapters to come, we knew … deep down … that something had taken root. Our love didn’t begin with fireworks or fanfare. It began with steady presence. Just like the roots of the muscadine vine.

We were two people who had lived enough life to value the quiet miracle of being seen and chosen.

Ours was a slow unfolding. Trust was built step by step, word by word, like branches reaching toward sunlight. We were starting a life in the wake of grief and growth, carrying past stories but daring to imagine new ones. Just like those vines, we were finding our footing … growing toward something lasting.

“We were two people who had lived enough life to value the quiet miracle of being seen and chosen.”

Year after year, the muscadine vines stretched across their trellis … green, alive, but never bearing fruit. Still, I kept watering them … kept believing in their quiet promise.

Life, too, was unfolding … sometimes gently, sometimes in ways that rattled us. But we kept going … kept tending … kept choosing each other.

This year, something changed.

For the first time, the vines are bearing fruit.

Twelve years.

The same number of years Jim and I have been writing our shared story.
The same number of years since we chose each other—deliberately, wholeheartedly.
The same number of years I've spent leaning into love, creativity, grief, and grace.

It’s not just fruit. It’s a marker of time. A reminder that slow growth is still growth. That what’s planted in love … even when it looks like nothing is happening … is quietly preparing to bloom.

Because the truth is … growth takes time, and so does maturity.

It takes years of deep roots, of weathering storms, of showing up when it’s hard, of learning when to stretch and when to rest. It’s that steady faithfulness that finally makes the vine strong enough, mature enough, to produce fruit.

And as I stood beside the vine this year, seeing it finally bear fruit, I couldn’t help but think of the words from John 15:5:

“I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.”
John 15:5 (NKJV)

This muscadine vine is more than a plant.
It’s a living timeline.
A witness to devotion, resilience, the quiet wisdom of waiting …
and a reminder of what becomes possible when we remain connected to love, to time, and to the true Vine.

And this?
This is the sweetness of love, time, maturity, and a muscadine vine.

Quote to Carry

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thought to Carry

What have you planted—physically, emotionally, or spiritually … that has taken its time to bloom?
What quiet promise are you still tending, even if it hasn’t yet borne fruit?

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A Season for Surrender

The trees know when it’s time.

Leaves shift from green to gold, from fire to fading brown, and then—without resistance—they fall. The air grows cooler, the light grows softer, and nature begins her quiet work of release. Autumn reminds us that surrender isn’t defeat; it’s wisdom. It’s trust in the rhythm of seasons.

“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 (NKJV)

I’ve been reflecting on what surrender looks like for me this year. One small but significant shift was my choice to disconnect from my Apple Watch. For years it kept me tethered—counting steps, buzzing with notifications, nudging me to move faster, do more, track better. And while it served me in many ways, I realized that lately it has also kept me from listening inward.

Taking it off felt strange at first, like leaving the house without shoes. But soon, I noticed something: without the constant hum on my wrist, I could hear my body more clearly. I paused when I was tired, not because a reminder told me to stand, but because I felt the need. I walked outside not to close a ring, but to feel the crisp air on my skin and watch the light filter through branches. This, too, is surrender—trusting that my worth isn’t measured in metrics, but in presence.

Autumn whispers the same truth: there is beauty in letting go. The trees are not less because they release their leaves. They are preparing for rest, for renewal, for growth that is unseen but deeply essential.

“Autumn shows us how beautiful it is to let things go.”
— Anonymous

Surrender isn’t about giving up. It’s about opening our hands—releasing what weighs heavy—so we are free to receive what comes next.

May this season remind us that in every falling leaf, there is both an ending and a beginning. That surrender can be holy. And that beauty often lives in the space we make by letting go.

Your Turn:
Take five minutes today to write down one habit, object, or obligation that feels more like a weight than a gift. How would it feel to set it aside, even temporarily, and give yourself room to breathe?

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The Bloom That Endures

Day 13 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

The final day of this photo challenge brings me to something tender and deeply personal — the pressed hydrangea blooms. It feels only fitting to share this on the Autumnal Equinox, a turning of seasons, when summer gives way to fall — the season of release. Just as the equinox marks a balance of light and dark, these blooms remind me of the balance between holding on and letting go, between memory and the unfolding of what comes next.

These petals belonged to my mother, plants we had gifted her each year. It was she who first taught me how to notice beauty, how to gather it, and how to preserve it. She could spot a 4 leaf clover better than anyone I know! (still!) She showed me that even fleeting things — a flower, a season, a moment — could be held in memory, pressed between pages, kept as reminders of love and life.

When I pressed these hydrangeas, I wasn’t simply keeping flowers. I was keeping connection. My mother’s presence lives in them, in the colors that fade yet still glow softly, in the delicate textures that carry time but not loss. Every petal feels like a whisper: remember what we shared, carry it forward, and create from it.

The Autumnal Equinox reminds us that nature knows when to release — the trees surrender their leaves, the blooms let go, the light shortens, and we enter a time of rest. My mother taught me that same rhythm: to tend, to nurture, and to eventually release. Her lessons echo in my hands and heart even now, years after her passing.

These blooms remind me that memory is not static — it is alive. They hold the stories of gardens tended, laughter shared, lessons taught, and quiet afternoons where hands worked and hearts connected. Pressed between pages, the hydrangeas have become both a keepsake and a compass, pointing me back to the roots from which I’ve grown and forward into the work I now create.

In many ways, these photos are the perfect close to the challenge. From sunflowers to angels to hydrangeas, each image has been about seeing life through the lens of memory and meaning. Hydrangeas are fragile, but they endure. They are soft, but they are strong. And much like love, they do not end; they change shape, they carry forward, and they remind us that what is made with love truly does matter.

As I close this chapter of the photo challenge, I carry with me not only these blooms but also the stories behind every image. It has been a journey of remembrance, gratitude, and hope — and above all, a reminder that beauty does not fade when it is rooted in love.

Thought to Carry

What we preserve with love becomes a legacy. Even fragile petals can hold the weight of memory and the strength of connection.

“That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.” — Emily Dickinson

“Strength and honor are her clothing; She shall rejoice in time to come.” — Proverbs 31:25

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There are Angels Amongst us

Day 12 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Each December our Ladies of the Church have a gathering. You have the option to fill your own table, or purchase individual tickets. I choose to purchase a table for my family. There are 7 of us and my dear friend Kathy, who has been like a sister for years. I try to think of something unique each year to gift them. This year I decided to paint something special for them. I remember sitting at my table with brushes, paints, and blank canvases, wondering how to capture the essence of each woman who would be sitting at my table. Out of that quiet space, seven angels emerged, (cue the song 7 Spanish Angels) each one unique — clothed in colors that felt like the woman they represented, their wings brushed with light, full like their hearts that envelope you in love, their presence a reminder that beauty comes in many forms.

Those paintings weren’t about perfection; they were about reflection. Each angel was painted not to be identical, but to honor the individuality of the guests, to say: You are seen. You are valued. You carry light in your own way. When I look back at them now, I realize that they weren’t just paintings for a night of celebration — they became symbols of what happens when women gather and share their presence with one another.

The angels reminded me that we are all both fragile and strong, carrying invisible wings that help us through seasons of sorrow and joy alike. Sometimes, those wings feel tattered, and yet they still hold us up. Other times, they shimmer so brightly that they guide others without us even realizing it.

Painting them was also a reflection of the season I was in — a season where I needed to remember that heaven’s messengers come in many forms. Sometimes they appear in paint strokes, sometimes in kind words, sometimes in the steady companionship of a friend who simply shows up. The angels became my way of saying thank you, of putting gratitude into form and color.

When I look at those canvases now, I am reminded of the women who gathered that night, the laughter that echoed through the room, the quiet tears that came with shared prayers, and the beauty of knowing that none of us walk this path alone. I look forward to the inspiration for this year, as I decide on how to honor each that have a place at my table.

Thought to carry

You may not see your wings, but they are there — in your kindness, your presence, your quiet courage. And sometimes, you are the angel someone else has been praying for.

“Angels are often disguised as ordinary people doing extraordinary things.” — Anonymous

“Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels.” — Hebrews 13:2 NKJV

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Lessons from a Sunflower

Day 11 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

The sunflower has always held a special kind of magic for me. It is more than a flower in the garden; it is a compass, a seeker of light, a teacher of resilience. When the clouds gather and storms sweep across the field, the sunflower still remembers where the sun will rise, and it keeps turning its face until the warmth returns. That, in itself, is a sermon.

This particular sunflower caught my eye not only because of its bright golden petals but because of the way it seemed to stand with such quiet confidence, rooted deeply yet reaching upward without hesitation. Its beauty wasn’t perfect — a few petals bent, edges worn — and yet, perhaps that is why I found it so striking. It didn’t need perfection to radiate joy. It simply needed to be.

I thought about the seasons of my own life where I felt bent at the edges, when grief, change, or uncertainty threatened to make me small. And yet, like this flower, there was always something within me that stretched toward the light. Sometimes the light came in the form of a kind word, sometimes through a creative spark, and often through the steady presence of those I love. Each became its own kind of sunshine, reminding me that growth is not only possible but inevitable when you remain open.

There is also something about the sunflower’s boldness — how it doesn’t shy away from being seen. In a field, it rises above, unapologetically vibrant, calling to bees, butterflies, and all who pass by. It is an invitation: to stand tall in your own way, to bring color and brightness into whatever patch of ground you’ve been given.

For me, this photo became more than just an image of a flower. It is a marker in this challenge, a reminder that each story we’ve walked through is like a petal — fragile, unique, and necessary to the whole bloom. Together, they form something radiant. Together, they turn toward the light.

And so, as I look at this sunflower, I am reminded of the simplest, truest thing: joy is not chased, it is received. We are not made to constantly strive, but to open, unfold, and let the light do its work. Like the sunflower, may we remain rooted and radiant, always turning toward what gives life.

Thought to Carry

Even in the shadowed places, your spirit knows where the light is. Trust its pull, and you will find yourself turning toward hope again and again.

“Keep your face always toward the sunshine—and shadows will fall behind you.” — Walt Whitman

“For with You is the fountain of life; In Your light we see light.” — Psalm 36:9 NKJV

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Freedom Feather

My word for the year, words for each season … connected energetically.

Day 10 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

There’s a quiet kind of power in doing something just for the joy of it. No pressure. No perfection. Just presence. That’s how my first photo from the weeklong art challenge came to be—though the photo alone didn’t tell the whole story. A few months ago, I took an online workshop with Delight Rogers, a talented artist who radiates ease and playfulness. The assignment was simple in theory: choose a word, tear some paper, and design what she called a Freedom Feather. But as it turns out, even simple can be sacred.

I sat at my desk that day with a stack of reclaimed papers—vintage scraps, hand-stamped textures, soft old pages with frayed edges. Tearing them took more time than I expected. There was something deeply soothing in it, as if every rip was releasing something: a rush of breath, an unspoken memory, an old should. The design came after, but the quiet therapy happened in those first moments.

The feather I created is layered in meaning, not just material. One side washes in earthy greens—rooted and grounded. The other flows in watery blues—fluid and open. I finished it with gentle strokes of watercolor, letting the colors blend without overthinking. Then I wrapped it—energetically—with my guiding words: one for the year, and a few for this season. Like a whispered intention woven in thread.

“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.”
— Rumi

This was more than an hour-long project. It was a reset.
A reminder that art doesn’t always ask for explanation—it just asks you to show up.

As I placed it on my desk, I realized how rare and valuable it is to create something that doesn’t need to “perform.” No purpose other than to express, to soothe, to remind.

And isn’t that a kind of freedom in itself?

“He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler.”
— Psalm 91:4 (NKJV)

A Thought to Carry:

What if the next thing you create doesn’t have to be big or perfect?
What if it just needs to be?

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Turning Points & Possibilities

Day 10 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

It began as a quiet piece in my closet—a soft pink denim jacket. For a while, it hung there, worn only on occasion, waiting. One day, I saw it with new eyes. I felt a nudge to transform it—to honor the pieces of me that were shifting and expanding.

What started as a simple refresh became a creative revelation. I pulled out remnants from past sewing and crochet projects—little leftover treasures that had waited for a new story. With my hands moving almost intuitively, I added soft tulle with florals, delicate crystal and pearl beads, and slowly stitched new life into her. I thought she was complete, but felt she was still missing something. I pulled out my embroidery threads and found an array of vintage pinks. I pulled all that I thought would pull this together, and give it the final touch. I embroidered an ombré of pinks into the front panels and riser, and with every thread, it felt like I was making space for something new to bloom.

Though this was not the jacket I wore to the Madison, Indiana retreat, its transformation was deeply inspired by that experience. Dionne Woods’ velvet fabric, printed with her artwork Pink Impression, had stirred something in me. I used it to create a flowing kimono for that retreat—one that Dionne herself admired and had photographed. That moment of being seen creatively—of showing up fully in something I made—was a spark that changed my direction. It reminded me that our creativity deserves a stage, even if that stage is as simple as a gathering of women, a borrowed camera, or a tiny post shared online.

So when I looked at the jacket again, I wasn’t just seeing fabric—I was seeing possibility. I finished it with a soft lining, stitched memories into every thread, and gave her a name in my heart. She represented my return to making for the sheer joy of it.

She was no longer just a jacket. She was a reflection of new beginnings, a wearable turning point that whispered back to me: you’re ready.

Thought to Carry

You don’t always need a full plan—sometimes you just need a thread to pull. Follow what delights you, and you may find yourself stitched back together in unexpected ways.

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Anaïs Nin

“Do not let your adornment be merely outward—arranging the hair, wearing gold, or putting on fine apparel—
rather let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit,
which is very precious in the sight of God.” 1 Peter 3:3–4 (NKJV)

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Like a Long-Lost Friend

Day 9 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Some pieces aren’t made for just anyone. They wait—quietly, patiently—until the right hands find them.

These boho necklaces are born from what’s left behind—scraps from beloved sewing and crochet projects, orphaned beads, single vintage buttons, the last inch of trim. I gather them without a clear plan, trusting that the right piece will speak at the right time. The necklaces come together slowly, like memory quilts for the soul—hand-knotted strands of natural stone beads paired with tassels made of tulle, thread, and time. Then come the charms—keys that once locked something up, now offering mystery and wonder. Snippets of handwritten fabric tags with quotes stitched in. A worn trinket. A button from someone’s grandmother’s tin.

And always, the knowing.

Because these necklaces aren’t created for crowds—they’re created for someone specific. Someone I haven’t met yet. I don’t always understand it in the making, but when the necklace finds her, we both know.

I’ve watched women hold one in their hand, tilt their head, breathe deep—and whisper with a smile:
“There you are.”

Like a long-lost friend.

And that’s how I know I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do—because these aren’t just accessories. They’re soul keepers. They carry whispers from the past and reminders of resilience. They celebrate uniqueness and invite the wearer to embrace their own beautifully tangled story.

Just like the paperweights, these necklaces feel like they have a quiet pulse. A calling. And when they are found, it's like something inside both of us exhales.

They are more than adornment—they are memory, movement, and message. I don't design them to match anything but the moment someone sees herself in them. It’s not about fashion. It’s about remembering who you are.

Thought to Carry

You are not too much, too broken, too late, or too far gone.
You are a mosaic of all you’ve walked through—and you are worthy of being found.

“There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.” —Leonard Cohen

“Jewelry is like the perfect spice—it always complements what’s already there.” —Diane Von Furstenberg

Star Charts and Little Lifts

Day 8 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Some of my favorite pieces begin as afterthoughts—scraps and remnants that might be overlooked by anyone else. That’s how my decoupaged risers came to be.

I started designing these small wooden risers out of necessity. I needed something to elevate items in my display—just a touch of dimension to bring attention to handmade jewelry, small artwork, or candles. I gathered leftover wood from past projects, painted the surfaces, and decoupaged whimsical decoupage papers across each one. I wasn’t planning on making more than a handful. But to my surprise, they became crowd favorites—selling out almost every time I brought them to a show.

At first, it was just the function I loved. But the more I made, the more I began to feel like each riser carried a little story. I fell in love with the papers I used—vintage-inspired illustrations that reminded me of the "man in the moon" art from old storybooks and dreamy night sky maps. Some with soft eyes that seemed to watch over you. Some grinning wide like they were in on a secret. All of them whispering a little bit of wonder.

These risers are multipurpose, but they’ve always felt like more than just display pieces. People tell me they use them on their bedside tables, on their mantels, in their reading nooks. They become a display for items that you want to draw the eyes to, a stage for favorite objects, give height to your display area – and they in their own right are pieces of art. It delights me that something made from leftover wood has found such meaningful places in people’s homes.

There’s something poetic in that—a reminder that even the scraps of our lives hold potential. That joy doesn’t have to be grand or polished. It can come in small, unexpected forms. These little risers carry the spirit of possibility: that what we build from what's left over can still be beautiful, beloved, and brimming with light.

A Thought to Carry

Let even your smallest scraps speak with intention.
Joy often rises from the most unexpected places.

“Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born—you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.”
— E.E. Cummings

Psalm 8:3–4 (NKJV)
“When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers,
The moon and the stars, which You have ordained,
What is man that You are mindful of him,
And the son of man that You visit him?”

We Are All Made of Stars

Day 7 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Some pieces arrive before their purpose.

I found the desk years ago, drawn to its bones, but unsure of what it needed to become. For a long while, it sat tucked away, waiting quietly while I navigated transitions in my life. After my mother passed and I stepped away from work, I felt called to create a new space—one that would serve not just as a work area, but as a map for healing.

Pulled from Storage …

The room I was designing it for had deep purple walls, and I knew I wanted to pull in night sky hues, golden accents, and cosmic symbolism. I began slowly transforming the desk: painting the trim black, layering in celestial decoupage papers with star charts and a soft golden glow. I added crackled copper-gold to the legs, stenciled stars on the drawer edges, after painting the sides in a rich plum shade.

I commissioned my daughter-in-love, Brittany, to create an illustration that would add constellations and moon phases—filling in the recessed panel that once held leather with a tribute to the heavens. We topped it with a protective piece of glass, sealing in the cosmos. The final result wasn’t just a desk—it was a constellation of memory, purpose, and rebirth.

During that year of pause, the desk became more than a project—it became an anchor. While I rested, researched, and dug deep to discover what was next, it quietly held space for my unfolding. Eventually, the desk was moved again, this time into a shared space with my sidekick. Now it continues to serve as a place I write, reflect, and connect with my community. It's become even more special with time—a sanctuary of sorts to possibility, presence, and new beginnings.

The desk had been waiting—just like I had. I originally purchased it from a woman named Sherry at a local resale shop, not knowing then how that single purchase would lead to friendship. We connected through a shared appreciation for pieces with soul, and though we don’t get to see each other as often as I’d like, that first meeting planted a seed that’s grown quietly in the background of my creative life. I think of Sherry’s warmth and her bohemian spirit. I love the curves of the desk legs, and the quiet companionship of a piece that has become so much more than furniture.

I’ve worked at this desk nearly every day since, and still pause sometimes just to admire it. It's a reminder that beauty can come from what’s been stored, stilled, or set aside. Sometimes healing looks like putting your hands to something physical—layering, painting, remembering—and watching it glow with new purpose.

This desk, like a fixed star, or perhaps the North Star Polaris, in my personal galaxy, reminds me that we all have a place in the constellation of stories. Some shine boldly, others whisper in glimmers—but all are part of the greater whole.

“If the stars were made to worship, so will I.

Lyric — Hillsong United, “So Will I”

“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.”
—Carl Sagan

A Thought to Carry

Even in your quiet seasons, you are still becoming.
What seems forgotten may simply be waiting for the moment to shine—
you, too, are made of stardust and second chances.

Second Chances

Day 6 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Some pieces don’t begin at a workbench or studio table. They begin with a relationship, a place, a memory—something that lingers long after the doors have closed.

This corner bookcase didn’t start out as a bookcase.
Its bones once held table legs and bedposts in a beautiful furniture shop called Hartford House, owned by my dear friend Sarah Smith. Her store was more than a storefront—it was an experience. Each piece handcrafted, each corner filled with charm. I still remember walking in for the first time back in 2009, furniture shopping with my first husband, and feeling like I’d stepped into a place that understood beauty and soul. That day, we met Sarah—and started a friendship that would carry us through more seasons than I can count.

Fast forward to 2020. Sarah and her longtime store manager, Mickey, visited me to talk candles. We collaborated on a special collection—ten exclusive fragrances crafted just for Hartford House. My gift sets and candles were stocked in her shop until the store closed in 2022. When that chapter ended, it felt personal.

As everything went up for sale, I spotted a display rack most had walked past without a second glance. But I saw potential in it. Maybe even a second chance. I bought it for a small fee and a shoulder massage, and with my dad’s help—plus a little teamwork from Jim and my brother—we gave it new life.

That old rack was transformed into a corner bookcase, now nestled into my own space. It holds more than books. It holds stories.

It holds the memory of a shop that shaped my early days as a maker.
It holds the scent of candle dreams born from shared trust.
It holds the labor and love of the men in my life who helped bring it to life.

The finish may be fresh, but the soul is seasoned.
This isn’t just about wood and nails—it’s about reverence. For the past. For the people. For what we choose to preserve.

Because sometimes the most beautiful pieces…
are the ones we give a second chance.

“We do not remember days, we remember moments.” — Cesare Pavese

“Unless the Lord builds the house, they labor in vain who build it.” — Psalm 127:1

A Thought to Carry

What parts of your story are still waiting for a second chance?
What might be transformed if you saw it with fresh eyes?

Joy in Ink

Finding Joy in Play

Day 5 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

This one began with no plan—just color, curiosity, and a need for something light.

I had been looking for a project to share with the middle school kids at church. Something easy. Something joyful. Something they could take home and say, “I made this.” And so the night before, I pulled out the alcohol inks with my mom and my daughter-in-love, Brittany. What followed was a night of laughter, splashes of color, stained fingertips, and wide-eyed wonder.

We played without purpose.
We let the inks roam.
We watched as magic happened without instruction.

The next day—my birthday—we taught the class. Each child made a print, and we turned them into small framed artworks and journal covers. They left holding something they made, and I left holding something too—a deep sense of joy. A reminder that sometimes the most meaningful gifts come from moments that are simple, spontaneous, and shared.

It didn’t matter that it was my birthday. What mattered was that we created something together. Something that didn’t need fixing or finishing. Something that only asked us to show up and enjoy the moment.

That, to me, is art at its most alive.

“A joyful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit dries up the bones.”
—Proverbs 17:22

“The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct.” —Carl Jung

A Thought to Carry

When was the last time you created just for fun—with no plan, no pressure, and no outcome in mind? What would happen if you let yourself play again?

After the Storm

Day 4 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Some skies tell stories before we even lift a brush.
The sky in this painting was one of them.

This was the first piece I created in my large art journal. A storm at sea, pulled from memory and emotion. Painted in acrylics with my new brushes, the colors swirled in deep, moody tones—clouds thick with feeling, water stirred but not wild. And just beneath it all, a small break in the clouds where the sun begins to peek through.

This was the inspiration photo for my painting … source (Pinterest)

That light—soft, golden, barely there—was everything.

I’ve always loved the skies after a storm, especially near the water.
There’s something about the tension easing… the drama retreating.
A kind of sacred hush follows, like nature exhaling.

I didn’t plan this painting. I simply let the emotion guide the palette—indigo, slate gray, bruised lavender, a hint of copper. My brush followed what my heart already knew: the storm may not be over, but the light is already returning.

I realized something else while painting: I gravitate toward moody tones.
Maybe I’m a moody gal, after all.
But there’s beauty in that, too.

Because moody doesn’t mean broken. It means complex. Felt. Honest.

This piece holds both the storm and the peace that follows.
It became a prayer on canvas—wordless, raw, and full of hope.

“When my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
— Psalm 61:2 (NKJV)

“You don’t have to control your thoughts. You just have to stop letting them control you.”
— Dan Millman

A Thought to Carry:

What is the storm in you softening, clearing, or preparing you for?
Let the light in—even if it’s just a sliver.

Explore this Life

Day 3 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Day 3 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

There are pieces that arrive through my hands as if guided. I may begin with a scrap of paper or a trinket that catches my eye, but somehow the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. This paperweight was one of those sacred creations.

It began with torn vintage papers layered to resemble a tree line—soft and worn, like a memory you can almost reach out and touch. I tucked in an old pin of an elephant mother and calf, their trunks gently curved toward one another. That image stirred something deep in me: the weight of legacy, the gentleness of protection, the quiet strength of those who carry us when we can’t carry ourselves.

Just above them, I nestled a small moon charm, etched with the phrase “Explore this life.” A whisper. A permission slip. A call to wander, yes—but also a call to wonder.

This wasn’t just about aesthetic. It was about intention. About anchoring memory into something you can hold in your hand. Paperweights might seem old-fashioned to some, but I see them as soulful anchors—pieces that say, “Be here. This matters.”

These paperweights are little stories without names. They live in the in-between—part relic, part offering. I make each one with care, not just for the materials, but for the life I imagine it landing in. I don’t always know whom I’m making it for. But I trust that when the right person finds it, she’ll know. She’ll say, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

This one was layered with love, devotion, and curiosity. An invitation to slow down, to remember where you’ve been—and to keep exploring, with both courage and tenderness.

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.” — Helen Keller

“The moon and stars to rule by night, for His mercy endures forever.” — Psalm 136:9 (NKJV)

A Question to Carry With You:

What object in your life carries a story you're still unfolding? What would it say if it could speak?