Be the Light

There are some experiences that do not simply give you memories. They illuminate something.

This past week in Madison, Indiana, at the Courage on Canvas creative retreat guided by Dionne Woods of The Turquoise Iris, and KellyWiler of Girl Upcycled and hosted by Cara Fox of the Little Golden Fox. Our theme this year was the lighthouse: to be the light, to share our light, to shine… were referenced throughout the week.

At first, those words can sound simple. Beautiful, certainly. Maybe even familiar. But over the course of several days, I began to see them differently.

A lighthouse does not chase the ships. It does not demand to be noticed or decide who deserves its light. It simply stands where it has been placed and shines.

Perhaps that is what we are being asked to do, too.

Light Can Be Heard

One of the most meaningful moments of the retreat for me was getting to share a guided sound experience with Jim for a group of thirty people.

Thirty.

It was the largest group we have worked with together, and more than half had never experienced a sound journey before.

There is something tender about introducing someone to an experience like that, as you cannot really explain beforehand exactly what they will feel. For some, sound brings deep relaxation. For others, emotion. Sometimes there is stillness or release. Sometimes it is simply the gift of sitting quietly and allowing yourself to receive.

Jim and I guided them into that space together, surrounded by bowls, chimes, vibration, intention, and the energy of a room filled with people willing to try something new.

I found myself thinking about the lighthouse again.

Sometimes sharing our light does not require words. Sometimes it sounds like a singing bowl or the vibration of a drum. Sometimes it is simply creating a safe place where another person can close their eyes, breathe deeply, and be.

Light Can Be Creativity

Throughout the retreat, we were invited to create.

We played with watercolor and picked up palette knives. Some were comfortable with the materials in front of them, while others were beginners. Most of us probably wandered somewhere between confidence and curiosity.

That may be one of my favorite things about creative gatherings. They remind us that we do not have to be experts to participate. We simply have to be willing.

Willing to pick up the brush.

Willing to make the mark.

Willing to try the palette knife even when it does not behave the way we imagined it would.

Willing to create without knowing exactly how it will turn out.

There is courage in that.

Maybe that is why the name Courage on Canvas feels so fitting. Sometimes courage is not a grand gesture. Sometimes it looks like a blank piece of paper and the decision to begin, and sometimes it is meaningful poetry. Both art in their own way.

The Courage to Share

And then there was the Courage Showcase.

This was another kind of courage entirely.

It was an opportunity for us to bring the things we create, the work of our hands and hearts, out where other people could see them.

There is a vulnerability in that.

Creating something privately is one thing. Putting it on a table, hanging it on a rack, reading your words, sharing your art, or saying, this is something I made asks something different of us.

It asks us to be seen.

The showcase was filled with the creativity of the women gathered there, each of us bringing something different. Different mediums. Different stories. Different ways of expressing what lives inside us.

I brought pieces of my own work that I had been preparing for Madison, including my quilt coats and other creations. These are pieces that carry so much of what I love: old things given new purpose, stories carried forward, remnants transformed into something beautiful and useful again.

Standing among the work of so many other creative women, I was reminded that sharing our light does not diminish anyone else's.

It adds to it.

One woman's creativity gives another woman permission to explore hers.

One person's courage makes courage a little easier for the next.

One story sparks another story.

One light meets another.

Maybe that was one of the most beautiful expressions of our lighthouse theme.

We weren't all meant to shine in the same way.

We were simply being invited to stop hiding what we had been given.

Sometimes the Light Stands Beside You

There are a few missing, it was a beautiful representation of support!

(Courage on Canvas community photo)

There was another kind of light present in Madison that deserves to be mentioned.

The husbands.

Several of us had our husbands there, and I found myself noticing the quiet ways they supported what was happening around them. They helped. They carried things. They showed up. They listened. They encouraged. They made room for their wives to create, connect, share their work, and step into the things that mattered to them.

There is something beautiful about being loved by someone who does not need to be at the center of what you are doing, but is willing to stand beside you while you do it.

I especially felt that with Jim.

This retreat allowed us to share something we have been building together through sound, but I also watched him support my creative world. The art. The friendships. The Courage Showcase. The conversations. All the pieces of this community that have become important to me.

To us.

There is a difference between someone simply coming along and someone genuinely entering into your world because they know it matters to you.

And I saw that happening around me with the other couples too.

Some supported before they left, some will support when they arrive home. Maybe we do not talk enough about that kind of partnership.

The person beside the artist, helping carry the artwork.

The person beside the dreamer, saying, go ahead, try it.

The person who helps load the car, rearrange the plans, sit through the conversations, share the meals, laugh around the fire, and become part of the community too.

They were not standing in the shadows of our light.

They were helping us tend it.

And in doing so, they were shining their own.

That may be one of the sweetest things I brought home from Madison: the reminder that sometimes being the light means stepping forward and sharing your gifts.

And sometimes it means standing beside someone you love while they share theirs.

Light Can Be Found In Nature

Captured during our discovery walk. (Courage on Canvas community photo)

One of the other gifts of our time together was experiencing Forest Bathing.

Slowly walking. Noticing. Listening. Allowing the natural world to become something more than scenery.

There is a difference between walking through the woods and allowing yourself to actually be present there. The texture of bark. The movement of leaves. The sounds around you. The shifting light through the trees.

Nature has a way of reminding us that not everything needs to be rushed, solved, produced, or accomplished.

Some things are simply meant to be noticed.

Sometimes the light we are looking for has been filtering through the trees all along.

Light Gathers in Circles

Closing Circle

Each morning began with a gratitude circle. Before the creating, before the schedules, before the adventures of the day, we gathered, reflected, and gave thanks.

And then there were the meals.

Meals together and time spent at the Little Golden Fox in the beautiful town of Madison. Conversations across tables. Stories exchanged between bites. Old friendships deepening and new connections beginning.

I have said many times that we need each other, and experiences like this remind me exactly why.

Community is rarely built in one dramatic moment. It happens in dozens of small ones: passing something across the table, asking someone about their story, sitting beside someone you did not know before, laughing together, listening, and allowing yourself to be known.

These moments become their own kind of light.

Light From the Fire

Some of us also gathered at Sandy and Jay’s for a bonfire.

There is something special about gathering around a fire. Conversations slow down. People linger. Stories find room to breathe.

Their son played and sang for us while the fire crackled and the evening settled around us.

And then there was a visit to Sandy’s Narnia.

Magical really is the only word for it.

It felt like stepping through a doorway into a little pocket of wonder tucked inside an already beautiful experience. It reminded me that we are never too old to be surprised, never too busy to notice beauty, and never too practical to leave room for wonder.

And Then It Ended

Closing out with a sweet prayer.

As all beautiful gatherings do, eventually the retreat came to an end.

Sadly.

There is always a strange tenderness in that moment. The rooms get quieter. The hugs last a little longer. People begin packing bags and loading cars. The thing you looked forward to for so long suddenly becomes something you are looking back on.

Jim and I stayed an extra day, and somehow that slowing down felt right.

Later, we ventured out to the creek near Sandy and Jay’s. We put our feet in the water and began noticing heart-shaped rocks.

They seemed to be everywhere.

Little stone reminders beneath our feet.

Love was here.

Love is here.

Pay attention.

It felt like the perfect punctuation at the end of those days together.

Later, Sandy and Jay invited us to share a meal their son "Cam" was planning to prepare. And once again, there we were around a table, sharing food, talking, lingering, receiving hospitality.

What a beautiful way to close an experience centered around light.

Not with some grand finale.

With water.

With heart-shaped stones.

With music and fire.

With food.

With friends.

This Little Light of Mine

Maybe that is the lesson I am bringing home with me.

A lighthouse does not illuminate the entire sea. It simply shines into the portion of darkness it has been given.

And somewhere along the way, I kept thinking about that little song so many of us learned as children:

This little light of mine…

Such simple words.

As children, we sang them with our fingers held high in the air, pretending that tiny fingertip was a flame. We probably had no idea then how much those words might mean later in life.

Because perhaps that really is the assignment.

Not to have the biggest light.

Not to outshine anyone else.

Not to illuminate the entire ocean.

Simply to tend the light we have been given and be willing to share it.

Looking back over our days in Madison, I realize that is exactly what I witnessed.

Light looked like thirty people sitting quietly together while Jim and I shared something we love through sound.

It looked like watercolor spreading across paper and palette knives making imperfect, courageous marks.

It looked like artists and makers having the courage to put their work out into the world at the Courage Showcase.

It looked like slow footsteps through the grass and mornings beginning in gratitude.

It looked like conversations around tables, music beside a bonfire, and stepping into the wonder of Narnia.

And when almost everyone had gone home, light looked surprisingly ordinary.

Bare feet in creek water.

Heart-shaped rocks beneath them.

A home opened to friends.

A meal Cam had prepared.

Another table with room for us.

Maybe the brightest light is not always found in the big moments. Maybe it is found in the person who makes room at the table. The one who shares their song. The one who creates something and offers it to another. The one who listens, encourages, opens their home, or simply says, come sit with us.

Maybe that is why those childhood words feel so different to me now.

This little light of mine... I'm gonna let it shine.

I understand them differently at sixty than I ever could have as a little girl.

We spend so much of our lives discovering what our light actually is.

Our gifts. Our stories. Our creativity. Our faith. The things we have survived. The things we have learned. The ways we have learned to love people better.

Maybe growing older is not about our light becoming smaller.

Maybe it is about finally understanding what it was meant for.

For a few beautiful days, a little town in Indiana held all of us.

There were old friendships strengthened and new ones beginning. There was art and sound, nature and gratitude. There was laughter, music, food around shared tables, fire, water, and hearts hidden among the rocks.

All of us carrying our own little light.

All of us shining differently.

And together, somehow, it became brighter.

That is what I want to carry home from Madison.

Be the light.

Share your light.

Shine.

You do not have to light the whole ocean.

Just tend the light God placed within you.

And let it shine.

A Little Invitation

What is your light?

Maybe it is your creativity, your faith, your hospitality, your encouragement, your story, or simply the way you show up for the people around you.

Maybe you are still discovering it.

Either way, you do not need to wait until your light feels bigger or brighter before you share it.

Tend what you have been given.

Stand where you have been placed.

And shine.

The Healing Between Us

Spend a few minutes in the wellness world, and it doesn't take long before you're offered another solution. A supplement promising more energy. A morning routine designed to optimize your day. A wearable device to measure your sleep, your stress, your heart. A protocol that promises a longer, healthier life.

There is nothing inherently wrong with any of those things. Many have their place, and I've explored more than a few of them myself over the years. As someone who has spent decades immersed in massage therapy, yoga, sound, creativity, and holistic wellness, I deeply believe our bodies deserve thoughtful care. I've spent years studying ways to help people feel better, move better, breathe deeper, and reconnect with themselves. I believe in nourishing food, restorative sleep, mindful movement, time in nature, creativity, and practices that calm the nervous system.

But lately I've found myself returning to a quieter question.

What if one of the greatest contributors to our well-being isn't something we purchase at all?

What if one of the greatest forms of healing has been available to us all along? What if it's each other?

The more I observe life, the more convinced I become that wellness has never been solely about what we consume. It's also about who surrounds us. It is about belonging. It is about being known. It is about having people who remember your story, who notice when your smile isn't quite as bright, who celebrate your joys without comparison, and who quietly sit beside your grief without trying to hurry it away.

Some of the healthiest people I know aren't necessarily the ones with the most perfect routines. They're the ones who laugh often, gather around tables, and have someone they can call without rehearsing the conversation first. They know what it feels like to be truly seen.

Somewhere along the way, we've been taught that healing is an individual pursuit. Read the book. Take the class. Do the work. Journal. Meditate. Exercise. Optimize. Improve. Repeat.

Those practices matter. I still embrace many of them myself. But none of them were ever intended to replace human connection.

The older I become, the more I recognize that many of my deepest moments of healing have happened in the presence of another person. A conversation that lasted long after the coffee was gone. A hand reaching across the table. A friend who simply listened. Someone who remembered my name during a season when I felt invisible. A hug that quietly reminded my body it was finally safe enough to exhale.

Healing doesn't always arrive with fireworks. More often, it arrives through eye contact, shared silence, unexpected laughter after weeks of carrying something heavy, or someone simply saying, "I'm here."

Our nervous systems were never designed to navigate life entirely alone. From the moment we enter this world, we are wired for connection. Safety isn't simply an idea our minds understand. It is something our bodies experience through relationship. Perhaps that's why loneliness weighs so heavily. It isn't merely emotional. It settles into the body. It changes how we breathe, how we sleep, how we carry tension, and how much energy we have to meet each day. We often search for another answer when what we're truly longing for is someone with whom we don't have to pretend.

I've experienced this truth again and again throughout my own life. The hardest seasons were never made lighter because I discovered the perfect routine. They became bearable because people showed up. Friends who prayed. People who sat quietly beside me. Conversations that reminded me I didn't have to carry every burden by myself. Moments of kindness that seemed small to the giver but became unforgettable to the receiver.

Looking back, those moments weren't interruptions to healing. They were the healing.

Perhaps that's one of the reasons my work has gradually evolved the way it has. On the surface, I host sound experiences, creative workshops, retreats, and gatherings.

Beneath every offering is a deeper hope: that people remember what it feels like to belong. To slow down enough to hear themselves again. To discover they aren't the only one carrying a particular story. To leave feeling less alone than when they arrived.

I've watched complete strangers become friends while creating art together. I've watched women arrive carrying invisible burdens and leave standing a little taller simply because someone finally saw them. I've witnessed tears fall during the quiet resonance of crystal bowls, followed by laughter shared over tea as people realized they didn't need to explain everything they were feeling.

Those moments continually remind me that healing happens in the presence of presence. Not because anyone has all the answers. Not because someone fixes us. But because being witnessed has a way of helping us remember ourselves.

Perhaps wellness has never been about becoming a perfectly optimized version of ourselves. Perhaps it has always been about becoming more fully human.

So maybe the healthiest thing we could do this week isn't adding another habit to our morning routine. Maybe it's sending the text you've been meaning to send. Making the phone call. Inviting someone to lunch. Lingering around the dinner table a little longer. Checking in on the friend who has quietly disappeared. Allowing someone to know the real answer when they ask, "How are you?"

These things may never appear on a wellness checklist, yet I wonder if they're some of the most important practices we'll ever cultivate. Because some of life's greatest medicine has never been found inside a bottle.

It has always lived in the space between us.

A Gentle Invitation

If you're longing for spaces where you can slow down, reconnect with yourself, and be surrounded by kindred spirits, I'd love to welcome you. Through creative workshops, sound experiences, retreats, and soulful gatherings, my hope is always the same: that you leave feeling a little more connected than when you arrived.

Not because I have something to give you that you don't already possess, but because sometimes we remember who we are more clearly when we're surrounded by people who make it safe to simply be ourselves.

Sometimes the greatest healing begins simply by showing up.

Who is in Your Orbit?

Friendship, Stories &

Unexpected Connections

“We Are All Made of Stars” was originally inspired by a desk that found its way into my home, and how a friendship found its way into my life.

Who is in your orbit? Who is part of your constellation?

Eighteen months ago, I wrote these words as part of Tattered and Mended. At the time, I was reflecting on a desk. Or at least, I thought I was.

Looking back now, I realize it was never really about the desk at all.

It was about connection.

It was about the curious way our lives intersect with people we might never have met otherwise. A conversation. A purchase. A shared story. A simple exchange that somehow grows into something much larger.

The desk came from a woman named Sherri.

Like many things that find their way into my studio, it arrived with a history already attached. Scratches from use. Evidence of a life lived. Marks left by hands I would never know. I brought it home because I could see possibility in it. I could imagine what it might become.

What I did not expect was that the desk would introduce me to a friend.

Sometimes life unfolds that way.

We think we are collecting objects when, in reality, we are collecting stories.

The older I get, the more I believe that none of us travel through life alone. Every person who crosses our path leaves something behind. A lesson. An idea. A memory. A piece of encouragement. Sometimes a wound. Sometimes a blessing. Often both.

I have met people because of a race track, a quilt, a candle, a piece of jewelry, a class, a blog post, or a simple "hello."

Many of those encounters lasted only a season.

Others became friendships.

A few became family of the heart.

Looking back across the years, I can trace my life through these connections. Like stars scattered across a dark sky, each one may seem separate on its own. Yet when viewed together, they form a constellation.

The pattern reveals itself only after enough time has passed.

When I met Brian, I could not have known how profoundly his life would shape mine.

When I lost him, I could not have known that grief would eventually lead me toward healing work.

When I enrolled in massage therapy school, I could not have known it would introduce me to sound healing, yoga, and a community of people seeking wellness.

When I met a kind gentleman who was living in Murphy, North Carolina, I could not have known that Jim would become the twine to my kite, helping me stay grounded while still encouraging me to fly.

When I bought a desk from Sherri, I certainly did not expect to gain a friendship.

And yet here we are.

Life has carried us both through new chapters since those early conversations. We don't see each other as often as I'd like, and we're long overdue for a visit. As it does for all of us, life has been busy unfolding… bringing joys, challenges, changes, and growth. But some connections have a way of enduring, even when time and distance stretch between visits.

And that friendship remains one of the unexpected gifts that desk brought into my life.

Every one of those moments felt ordinary at the time.

Most stars do.

A single star rarely captures our attention. It is only when we step back and look at the whole sky that we begin to see the pattern.

Perhaps that is why I love old things so much.

Old quilts.

Old photographs.

Old letters.

Old furniture.

Each one reminds me that everything and everyone carries a story.

The desk now serves a different purpose than it once did. Like so many things in my life, it has been repurposed, reimagined, and given a second chapter.

Maybe that is what we do, too.

We gather pieces from those who came before us. We carry forward the wisdom, kindness, creativity, and courage that others have shared with us. We add our own experiences to the mix. Then we pass something meaningful on to the next person who enters our orbit.

A friend.

A student.

A child.

A stranger.

A reader.

A fellow traveler.

The truth is, none of us shine alone.

We are illuminated by those who loved us, encouraged us, challenged us, taught us, and walked beside us. We are stitched together from countless encounters, conversations, and acts of grace. We are connected in ways we rarely recognize while they are happening. And perhaps that is why this story still resonates with me all these months later.

Because a desk became a friendship.

A purchase became a conversation.

A conversation became a connection.

And a connection became part of my constellation.

When I look up these days, I am reminded that the same elements that formed the stars are found within each of us.

Maybe that is why we are so drawn to one another.

Maybe we recognize something familiar.

Maybe we are all carrying little pieces of light.

Maybe we are all made of stars.

Who has become part of your constellation? I'd love to hear about the unexpected friendships, chance meetings, or ordinary moments that changed the direction of your life. Leave a comment below and share your story.