I could paint all day, every day—what a life that would be.
I’m deeply grateful for the gift of creativity.
For years, my overwhelming passion to create felt more like a burden than a blessing—more nemesis than divine spark.
But as the years quietly slipped into decades, and the seasons of life came and went, that once-overwhelming need to create softened.
Now, it feels like an island of peaceful solitude, rising with high tides of joy.
As a young artist, I felt the pressure to get it right—to make something recognizable, something familiar.
But in this season of maturity, I no longer strive to control the outcome.
I’m not the artist trying to perfect the painting.
I’m simply the witness to the unfolding process—
a quiet observer who just happens to be holding the brush.
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