It’s Sunday afternoon. The first snowfall of the season. My body is blissfully tired. I’m moving through the day liked warm molasses. But my spirit is full.
My open studio was yesterday. The weather was wet and mucky. The patches of ether that we call the internet were fickle that day. But it was an amazing event, and I am ever grateful.
We were surrounded by wonderful people, good energy, and a renewed sense of community. We all came together to enjoy a carefully plated bite, a splash of good wine, and some artwork.
This was only my second open studio to date; the first was in 2019 when we officially finished the space. I had meant it to be an annual event; the pandemic thought otherwise. And I know even yesterday, many who wanted to come made a risk assessment in the opposite direction.
To them, I say:
Yes. You were right to stay home. To listen to your fears, your worries, your hesitations. To heed the needs of your body. Self-care comes first, always.
But as for me, I had to listen to a different voice. One that said to make it warm, make it welcoming, and make it beautiful.
A creative voice that urged me to make a wall as black as night and fill it with an entire galaxy of artwork. One that told me to make the tree swirl and the rock shimmer and the mountain the color of a sailor’s sky. One that said to make what you are called to make and let it resonate like a singing bowl that hums deep within someone else’s soul.
One that urged me to put it all out into the world in the way that felt right; no judge, no jury.
Today that same voice is saying different things. Today it’s telling me to rest, to wear a wool sweater, to watch the snow fall in thick wet clumps. To move slowly. To eat warm food and drink hot tea and breathe deeply.
Today is the calm after the storm, and tomorrow is another day.