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?

Glory at Sunrise

Day 2 – Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

Some days begin with heaviness.
The kind of weight that sinks into your chest before you’ve even had your coffee.
That was the day I received news from my dad’s biopsy—news that wasn’t what we had hoped for. I remember coming home, quiet. Still. Holding that ache close to the surface.

And then I reached for the paints.

I wasn’t looking to create a masterpiece. I just needed something to hold the emotion. Something to move my hands while my heart tried to make sense of it all. I pulled out a thick 4x4 canvas, acrylic paints, my new brushes, and texture medium—and for the first time in a long time, I painted with nothing but my fingers.

The sun was my subject. A sunrise, just breaking through the edge of a stormy sky.
The kind of sky you only get after the weather has passed—when the light finds a way to return, even if only just barely.
That became the theme.
Light... okay.

I titled it Glory at Sunrise. Not because the moment felt glorious—but because I knew deep down that it would be. Eventually.

The inspiration came from a quote that stirred something in me:

“What I know for sure is that every sunrise is like a new page, a chance to right ourselves and receive each day in all its glory. Each day is a wonder.”

And that’s what I held onto.
Yesterday had already passed.
Tomorrow hadn’t yet arrived.
But this day—this sunrise—was mine. And even in the unknown, it carried light.

That line became my anchor.
Because yesterday—I can’t change.
And tomorrow? It isn’t promised.
But today… today I can choose to see the glory.
I can choose to trust that we are held. That our Creator has my family in His care. That no matter the outcome, light is still showing up.
One day at a time.

Painting this didn’t fix anything. But it softened something inside me.
It gave form to the swirl of grief, hope, fear, and faith.
And it reminded me: even when we feel helpless, we can still create beauty.
Even if it’s just with our fingertips and a bit of color.

The emergence of the sun just under the heavy clouds reminded me:
Our Creator hasn’t left us. We are not alone in the storm.
Even when the outcome is uncertain, the presence is sure.

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

I added that sun with a whisper of hope.
That even through grief and fear, there is beauty.
That light still finds a way in.

A Thought to Carry:

Where does the light show up in your life—especially after the storm?
What can you let yourself feel and create today, simply because you’re alive to see the sunrise?

Freedom Feather

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

Day 1 – 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?

Made to Matter: 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

An Invitation to Look Closer

Intro to the Series: Made to Matter – 13 Soulful Stories from the Studio

It began as a simple challenge—post one photo a day for ten days, ( 3 days in I received a second nomination) no words, just images. A visual practice. A quiet unfolding.

But as the days passed, the photos began to ask for more.
Not attention—understanding. Not explanation—remembrance.

And so, this series was born.

Made to Matter is a collection of 13 stories, each one woven from a photograph, a moment, and a piece of my creative heart. Some were made with my hands—through sewing, painting, knotting, or layering paper and light. Others emerged through stillness and deep reflection. All of them carry intention, memory, and presence.

You’ll find these and more:

• Feathers wrapped in seasonal words

• A finger-painted sunrise created through grief

• Jewelry knotted with old stories and new wonder

• Repurposed shelves and desks given second lives

• Angels painted to mirror the beauty of beloved guests

• A pressed hydrangea bloom, held for my mother—who taught me how to see beauty even when she forgot to see it in herself

Each entry is a window into a creative moment.
A chapter that wasn’t rushed.
A practice in seeing—not just what was made, but why it mattered.

This isn’t just a series about making art.
It’s about honoring the unseen, the unfinished, the whispered things.
The parts of ourselves that bloom when we pause long enough to listen.

So whether you read every entry or land gently on the one meant for you—welcome.
You’re invited to look closer.
To feel what you feel.
To begin wherever you need to begin.

“Art is the journey of a free soul.”
— Alev Oguz

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NKJV)

A Thought to Begin With:

What might your own photos be saying—if you paused long enough to listen?

This is my offering. A collection of 13 small windows, each opened with care.
I hope one of them reflects a piece of you, too.

Origin Story

Origin Story: The Silver Bohemian

Made to Matter: A Life Pieced Together with Love and Letting Go

I didn’t set out to build a brand. I set out to make sense of what remained.

After losing my first husband, Brian, to ALS, I found myself reaching for meaning in the quiet, sacred spaces where words failed. It was in the weight of his worn shirts, the scent of his favorite hoodie, and the sound of our shared songs echoing in memory. As a caregiver, a mother, and a woman shaped by both grief and grit, I turned to my hands—stitching, painting, repurposing, remembering. Grief moved through me in threads and brushstrokes, in the beauty I tried to rebuild from what was broken.

Years later, when I lost my mother suddenly during the pandemic, the ache returned—but so did the call to create. Her life was etched into the tiniest things: fabric scraps, handwritten notes, broken jewelry, dried flowers. These pieces, too precious to part with and too full of feeling to ignore, became the raw materials for healing. I began again. One candle. One paperweight. One jacket stitched with memory and meaning. And in the making, something softened. Something sacred stirred.

In time, healing began to shape itself into something new. Not as a replacement for what was lost, but as an expansion of what had been loved. And then, gently, Jim entered the story.

Where Brian had been my partner through the storm, Jim became the calm after. We met in a season of rebuilding, and his quiet steadiness helped me remember who I was—beyond the caregiver, beyond the widow. He didn’t try to replace what had been lost. He honored it, and helped me expand into something new. Together, we built not only a life, but a rhythm: creative retreats, wellness offerings, long walks, slow mornings, laughter around the table, and a shared belief that healing is not a finish line—but a living process. His belief in me—and in the way I turn memory into meaning—gave me the courage to build something lasting.

That’s how The Silver Bohemian was born.

Out of tattered fabric and sacred memory.
Out of the knowing that even when something ends, something else—equally beautiful—can begin.
Out of the wild, wonderful truth that we are all made to matter—and so is what we leave behind.

This work is more than my livelihood. It is my offering. A living tapestry of what love can create—across time, through loss, with hope, and with a heart wide open.

From grief came my life—not just the surviving of it, but the sacred weaving of it. What began as a way to hold on became the way I learned to let go, to become, and to bless what is. My brand, my art, and my healing work are ever-evolving—just like me. They are stitched with gratitude for all the souls who’ve shaped me along the way. While there are far too many to name, these relationships remain especially pivotal to who I am today:
Brian, who taught me presence and quiet courage.
My mother, and my Father who passed down creativity, care, and the joy of making something with your own two hands.
And Jim, who continues to remind me that love expands, legacy evolves, and healing can be a beautiful, everyday act.

This is why I do this work. Because love leaves a trace. And I’ve made it my mission to follow those threads—and help others find theirs, too.

If this story speaks to you, welcome.
You’ve just found your way to The Silver Bohemian—a space where memory, creativity, and healing meet. I'm so glad you're here.