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

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

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.

Be the Light