Known as Canandaigua’s “Magnificent Benefactress”, Mary Clark Thompson was an incredible example of what women are capable of in this world. During this Women’s History Month, it’s her and others that I look to for inspiration and guidance.
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It seems like ages ago now, but around the time that both my kids were researching and applying for colleges, my neighbor was also enduring his last days.
The intersection of all of these monumental events had me feeling one way: Helpless.
It wasn’t a feeling I knew what to do with. After all, I have always been someone who thrives on action. I like to have control; to have a game plan; to solve.
These were situations where none of that was possible, and so I put my neighbor’s name on a card. I put the word “college” on a card. I put other things I’d been persistently worrying about on cards. And I dropped them into an open jar.
I told myself what I knew to be true: I don’t have control over these things, and so I must release them to a higher power, whatever that spirit/god/universe is.
Once in the jar, I relieved myself of worry, knowing there was no point in thinking or dwelling on the things inside. I could put them there knowing they would be taken care of. I could have that space back for creativity, presence, and love.
I let the jar remain open, knowing, like a butterfly, those things would fly when they were ready.
A few years later, I found the jar. I pulled those cards out, astonishing myself with how those things truly did come together as they were supposed to, without my intervention; without my worry influencing the outcome.
Fast forward to this year, when my word for the year made itself known to me: Release.
After mornings of waking up weighed down by worry, diving into the day with concern and uncertainty that I didn’t want to bring into my art, my relationships, or my self-compassion, I knew that it was time to bring the release jar practice back.
To honor February as a month of love, I cut little hearts from an expressive painting of gouache I’d done with the inspiration of The Creativity Course by Larry Moore, and I began to write my concerns down.
I added them to the jar, set it on my windowsill, and let the lightness settle in.
Each time I see the jar, it’s not a reminder of what I can’t control; it’s a reminder that I don’t need to control it all. Everything will be taken care of. I don’t need to worry about it anymore.
This practice isn’t about abdicating responsibility. It’s about acknowledging what I can and cannot control, and releasing that which is outside of my grasp.
In the coming weeks, months, and years, I hope you can do the same.
Release the things you cannot control… even if it’s something you’ve been nurturing for years.
Sometimes things need to fly free to figure themselves out, and in the meantime, you can experience the levity that will allow you to show up in your life, your relationships, and your art as you wish to.
(And if you need a reminder that you are enough, head right over here.)
P.S. If you’re willing, share your release jar with me. I’d love to see a picture, and to send releasing vibes to your worries with you. Drop it here in the comments, or post it to social with the hashtag #cindyharrisart. Thanks so much for being here.
Don’t wait for the path to appear
Before we dive into today’s missive, I want to start by saying this: I believe that the universe conspires in our favor. I believe that serendipity is real. I believe our thoughts become things.
And. I also believe that none of that works if we don’t.
Whew, how’s that for a start?
Now, bear with me as I share with you why this is top of mind, and important for the year ahead.
For more than 25 years, I’ve successfully run an award-winning graphic design + branding firm as both owner and creative director. I’ve been able to help countless businesses across winemaking, tourism, manufacturing, nonprofits, and more create authentic, creative packaging + identities that bring both strategy and heart to the forefront.
And I’ve been able to do it in a place I love, the Finger Lakes of New York State.
Over the last seven of those years, I began to take my passion, plein air painting, much more seriously.
What sat on a shelf for so long got the dust blown off of it as I shifted my focus, worked with Lori Putnam as a mentor, and felt my dream become even stronger after a life-changing trip to the south of France.
And in a blur of activity, that brought me to 2023, a year that felt pivotal for my art.
It was the year I realized: Few can wait to be discovered. If I want to be accepted into larger galleries and invited to larger shows, it’s up to me to do the work to make that happen.
And so, with the help of Gina Ward and the team at Plein Air Magazine, I developed a marketing plan that helped me bring a higher intensity to the visibility of my art, introducing me to people and partnerships that have meant the world to my business.
I’m doing the work, and while it’s at times scary, vulnerable, and overwhelming, I know just how important it is.
I just finished an inspiring book, The Secret Life of Sunflowers by Marta Molnar, based on the true story of Johanna Bonger, Vincent van Gogh's sister-in-law. She inherited van Gogh’s paintings upon his death, which were worth nothing at the time, and she introduced them to the world, cultivating his legacy.
Next on my shelf is The Story of Art Without Men by Katy Hessel, an important book that questions: How many women artists do you know? Who makes art history? Did women even work as artists before the twentieth century? And tells the stories of women artists who’ve overcome the odds to make their mark with art in this world — and have hardly received the recognition they deserve.
For centuries, women have propped male artists up, with their own work largely going unnoticed. It’s an undisputed fact that female artists have had more barriers to face.
And while we’ve made exponential strides leading up to today, it doesn’t change the fact that the work needs to be done, and we will likely always have to work just a little harder for it.
I say this from a place of excitement; of inspiration; of realism.
Don’t ever give up on your dreams. There may be bumps in the road, people who don’t agree with you, or those who say things that hurt.
Listen. Journal. Go to therapy. Whatever you do, don’t let it stop you. This world needs your art, your light, your legacy. And that can only come from you.
This year brings a fresh start, one in which I’ll be clearing out my online shop to make way for the new, one in which I’ll be traveling to Asheville to participate in PACE for the second year in a row, and one where I’ll be attending Art in the Open in Ireland, the largest plein air festival in Europe.
My dreams are bigger than ever, and with a devotion to the work on my end, the magic is yet to be revealed.
I can’t wait to hear what magic 2024 brings for you. Thanks for being on this ride with me. 💛
When you hear the bells ring…
Earlier this month, on a trip up north with my mom and sister, my mom asked us to take a detour to drive past her old home on her family’s dairy farm on Tug Hill in the Adirondacks.
As we approached the land where she grew up, where she milked cows in the barn and tended the garden near her family’s modest home, she recounted a story of a Christmas past, one I could feel the magic in. One that reminded me of simpler times.
It inspired the painting above, and it’s what I’d like to share with you today.
In her words:
It was approaching dinner time on Christmas Eve — the evening when Santa visited our house. All four of us kids rushed in from doing our chores in the barn and in the pastures, eager to strip off our heavy coats, boots, hats, scarves, and mittens as the sun set and dusk set in.
We’d spent the day sneaking glimpses at the sky, each wanting to be the first to see Santa’s sleigh, despite knowing he wouldn’t visit until we were fast asleep.
The moment the door to our house opened, we were welcomed by the smell of oyster stew and pecan pie Ma and my Grandma had been preparing all day.
We hung our heavy gear and started to get the table set. Even though dinners together were frequent, our Christmas Eve dinner always came with magic in it, each of us always having one eye on the sky.
Rushing to get the dishes done after we’d properly stuffed our bellies, we gathered with our parents and grandparents around the lit tree adorned with our homemade ornaments, excitedly chattering about what Santa might soon put under that tree.
Pa reminded us that we needed to be fast asleep in our bedrooms for the magic to happen, so we took our anticipation with us up the stairs, where we changed into our pajamas and got into bed, never stopping our whispering.
And there it was — the bells ringing.
We were out of our beds in an instant, running down the stairs to find our gifts — a new pair of ice skates, a sled, a new hat + mittens knit by my grandmother, doll clothes made by my Ma.
As we cuddled up in piles on the living room floor around the tree, we continued to steal glances outside, where the full moon lit up our still-fresh footprints in the sparkly, frozen snow from just hours ago.
The night was still. The moon and stars, big and bright. The air was crisp. There was a deep, gentle peace surrounding us, but inside was charged with excitement. The fire, big and bright. The air, warm, and the feeling of love, prominent.
Dear friends…
I could feel the hustle + bustle of little footsteps in that old home as my mom told me her story, and it was a hustle + bustle I could actually get behind — one of excitement; of coming together; of love on a deep, peaceful night lit only by the full moon and the bright snow on the ground.
I wish this deep peace of gentle nights for you throughout the holidays + this winter.
May you always feel at home, and never alone. May you take a break from the hustle + bustle of daily life and let the excitement of being with ones you love wash over you.
May you hear the ringing of the bells and know just how much this world needs your love + light.
Happy holidays, from my home to yours. 💛
We can all be the light
I’m fortunate to be many things in my life: A daughter, a wife, a sister, a mother, a friend, a collaborator, a student, a teacher…
But my favorite so far has been Cici, the name I’m called by my three grandchildren.
Each and every time I’m with them, splashing in puddles, painting with smocks on, or reading stories, I’m flooded with love, with gratitude, and a deep remembering of how to play -- how to experience wonder, curiosity, and happiness each and every day.
I was recently at my daughters’, reading with her and her two little ones. The book was Goodnight, Hattie, My Dearie, My Dove, illustrated by my 5th grade art teacher, Linda Strauss Edwards.
I was instantly transported back to 11-year old Cindy, enamored with the idea of illustrating childrens’ books; inspired by my teacher who was out there creating.
While it’s not the path I ended up following, aside from a whirlwind and wonderful trip to NYC years ago with my husband and kids to have my sketches reviewed by the Society of Children's Book Writers + Illustrators, Linda was a positive force in my life who saw my potential, helped stoke my fire, and encouraged me to follow my passion.
Sitting on the floor in my granddaughter’s room, I felt the rush of wonder; of curiosity; of happiness that used to envelope me when creating art as a child.
I could confidently say I was an artist in the 5th grade.
I can also say that somewhere along the line, that confidence as an artist fell as other priorities took over.
As I’ve reclaimed myself as an artist over the last few years, I’ve thought deeply about the influences I’ve had; about the myriad positive forces I’ve been blessed with.
I’m reminded that a “random” act of kindness can transform a life; that a positive piece of encouragement can change someone’s thoughts of themselves; that paying attention to an individual can alter how they pay attention to themselves.
My calling is to be that person for others — to see their potential, help stoke their fires, and encourage them to follow what brings them joy.
I may not have a large platform or space on a bestseller list, but I know if I keep touching people with my light and love, even just one at a time, it will spread.
During a deep group meditation on Monday evening, I was visited by three distinct women from my life.
The first, a student I had in a painting class I teach who’s since passed and is with us in spirit; the second, a 5th grader whose class I spoke to years ago who was hugely impacted by art in her life; the third, a phenomenal fine artist with whom I’ve been exploring the idea of her illustrating maps as a way to expand her passions.
As always, upon coming out of the meditation, we’re encouraged to share what transpired for us.
For me, it was clear: Yes, I paint for me. But the finished painting isn’t what’s important.
What’s important is the acts of kindness and generosity done along the way.
I may not be able to silence the naysayers in others’ lives, but I can be the light that fortifies them so their resilience can shine.
I can give myself space to experience wonder, curiosity, and happiness each and every day, so that I might help others do the same.
I know you can, too.
Spread your light. Show your love. Share your gratitude. Create what brings you joy.
And remember, if just one person sees that light; feels that love; hears that gratitude; is inspired to create by what you’ve made…
This world will be an infinitely better place.
P.S. I believe that art is an active piece of any home, and the goal of mine is to bring more light into yours this year. Dance on over to the shop, where you can take 23% off all paintings through the end of this calendar year. Just use the code THANKS23 💛
I am grateful for today
I’m sitting here in the middle of a park in Bloomfield, NY, with the wind blowing, the clouds moving, and the leaves beautifully transitioning.
Yesterday, I held my baby granddaughter in my arms, feeling the love emanating from my heart to hers, and vice versa.
Last week, I traveled to the Hudson Valley for a retreat where I meditated, went on many hikes, and watched the sunset from a sky top tower built in 1921.
It all seems surreal, and I’d be dishonest if I said I wasn’t utterly confused.
How can I experience a cocoon of breathtaking beauty as others around the world experience horrific acts of violence?
It’s an unfathomable reality, and as I cope with my own heavy heart, holding space for the women, men, and children experiencing inhumane atrocities and feeling relatively helpless, I know the one thing I can do is continue to spread light.
Today, that looks like sharing five affirmations I repeat to myself when I find myself being tugged into despair.
My hope is that you, too, can put your hand on your heart, and use these to remind yourself that you matter:
❤️ I am goodness. I am love.
❤️ I feel peaceful, grounded, safe, and secure.
❤️ Everything is unfolding for me in perfect timing. I release worry and choose to trust.
❤️ I radiate calm, patience, and serenity.
❤️ I am grateful for today. I accept the gift of the present moment.
Thank you for being with me here today. May those of us who can continue to spread light; to spread love; to spread the reminder that we are all humans, and we all matter.
I appreciate you.
The gift of listening
My heart started beating a little faster when I heard it: The sound of the geese flying past my house, on their way south.
I was sitting on my porch this morning, candle lit, wrapped in my favorite afghan. With my eyes closed, my heart could feel what my ears were registering, and for that brief moment, it wasn’t my own thoughts.
It was the realization that this is the first time I’ve heard the geese. It was the appreciation that the morning is growing darker with each day that passes, and the chill in the early morning air is increasing. It was a reminder that the season is once again changing, and life will keep going.
Early mornings in solitude on my porch is one of the few things that remains absolutely consistent in my daily routine now that I don’t have babies to feed or children to get out the door to school.
It’s a chance to listen to my heart and align my day ahead with what it is I want to do to bring joy both to myself and to others.
On days I let my mind take over, my body tightens. I consider the projects I could be using this time on. I think of the laundry that needs to get done. I go through all the “shoulds” of the day.
But on days when I let my heart guide the way, I hear the geese. I witness the fog lifting across the road from our house, unveiling a dew-soaked field. I get a front row seat to the changing of the seasons; the shifting of the light; the cyclical sounds of nature.
And each time I let myself just be in the moment, I know that this is not just how I want to live; it’s how I want to paint.
My heart is saying: Paint this feeling. Paint this shift. Paint with this ritual language that nature is speaking, and don’t try so hard to be good.
Last week, I sent a note to my mentor, Lori Putnam. I told her my struggle: I continue to have this thing, this affliction where I find myself constantly asking myself if I’m good enough.
Her answer is one I will remember forever: “Hmm, is it good enough? Good enough for…??? Nothing I paint is good enough for me to like it, even one day later. That’s both the struggle and the incentive, isn’t it?”
I, like most of the artists I know, am my own harshest critic. I struggle to consider my work good enough… and I am incentivized by the relentless pursuit to keep learning; to keep experimenting; to keep creating.
As I try to during my early mornings on the porch, I need to let my heart guide the process. Paint from the feelings. Appreciate the surroundings. Let my whole body listen.
If we could all give ourselves this gift of really listening, even if just in small pockets throughout the day, perhaps we could all resist the temptation to do more and just be.
With each season comes a reminder that life will keep going. Here in the Finger Lakes, the leaves will turn in the coming weeks; the days will grow even darker; the air will become chillier.
I want to grab hold of it all. I want to appreciate the moment and keep moving toward the joy that awaits me in the future.
And in 10 years, I want to look back just as I do now and think: Wow, how far I’ve come.
I want the same for you.
P.S. By the way, my favorite mug for my morning coffee was made by an artist friend, Jessie in the Bristol Hills of NYS. Check out her work right here. ☕️
Water, wind, and the power of painting
We were sitting on the porch of our cabin in the Adirondacks last week when the sky grew dark and the wind started to pick up.
My phone had pinged me earlier with a tornado warning for the area, but it could not have prepared me for what came next.
The lightning struck, followed by booms of thunder that shook the ground. Tucked between huge pines, we took cover inside as the rain started pounding down.
Alongside the fear that crept in as I realized the power of the storm was an extraordinary amount of awe at what nature is capable of.
Just days before, I was in Canandaigua, painting a scene of water lilies under a bridge. It was sweet. Quiet. Serene.
Like so many of the landscapes I’ve painted, the scene I was capturing was, in a word, healing.
The contrast of that scene to the one I was in the middle of on my porch in the Adirondacks was, to me, the epitome of nature showing its many sides.
There’s the healing side — the one that provides respite, fulfillment, and connection.
And then there’s the power side — the one that reminds us of the relentlessness of water, the capacity of clouds, and the strength of wind.
The tornado did touch down about 20 miles from where we were. We lost power and cell phone reception, and we had front row seats to the lake as the water level rose about 5 inches.
I didn’t sleep much that night. When I woke from what little sleep I did get the next morning, I couldn’t stop thinking of the power that nature holds, and how I could express the intensity of that power — and the feelings it conveys — in my paintings.
I gathered my easel and supplies just hours later and ventured to a familiar spot, Singing Waters, to paint with my friend Meg.
The day after that ruckus-making storm, there were no gentle, singing waters here.
Instead, there was a powerful whoosh of root-beer colored water and foam rushing over the rocks. It was anything but quiet. It was roaring.
We set up quickly as there was still a threat of rain in the air, and I began mixing colors to match the scene — not the pretty blues of a quiet stream or the glinting golds of the sun reflecting off the lakes that I’m used to painting.
This was different. It wasn’t necessarily pretty. It was powerful.
What I captured on the canvas that day was quick and scrappy, but what I captured in my body and my soul was the feeling of the entire experience — the coursing of the blood in my veins as I felt the rushing waters; the feelings of change and growth that penetrated my heart as I felt the power of the wind; the inspiration and drive I felt pulsing through my hands as I furiously painted.
As I sit here writing this this morning back at my home in Bloomfield, there’s a light rain. It’s quiet, and I can hear the birds.
Nature. It’s healing, and it’s destructive. It’s fulfilling, and it’s draining. It’s pretty AND it’s powerful.
It is the very essence of humanity; of the women who create that humanity.
Walt Whitman said it, but between women and nature, we embody it: We contain multitudes.
In Colorado in May, it hit me just how vast mountains could be. During the storm in the Adirondacks last week, it hit me just how powerful nature could be.
And while my painting up to this point has been a practice in capturing the light and letting the strokes heal myself and those who buy and take in my art, it hit me just this week that my painting can also hold power.
Through painting, I can express the feelings that my body cannot contain any longer. I can tell stories that go beyond the serene.
Like the rushing waters, my paintings can roar. We, as women, as humans, can roar.
We can use our power, for good.
Holding on to your Self
In a recent episode of We Can Do Hard Things, Glennon Doyle did a 1:1 interview with writer Maggie Smith, where they spoke about betrayal, the truth, and reclaiming ourselves in a world that encourages the shaming of women who dare to tell their stories.
As I became enthralled with Maggie’s story, what struck deep down in my core was the fact that she kept writing throughout every curveball she faced in order to hold on to who she is.
Earlier this month, I was standing amongst dozens of my high school classmates from Lowville Academy as we gathered for our 45th class reunion.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.
Because as I was moving my way amongst the groups of friends I made in the ‘70s, I was flooded with the feelings and memories of being high school Cindy…
A girl who was energized by the vastness of what was spread out in front of her, despite having no idea where she was going.
A girl who dressed how she wanted to dress, made friends with everyone, and listened to herself, first.
A girl who was supported and encouraged by her family, her teachers, and her friends to open doors, explore just for the fun of it, and create without regard for outcome.
Though everyone’s high school experience is different, mine was one of authenticity, of freedom, and of genuine self-expression.
In the years that followed, that girl grew, and she shifted.
I became the first person in my family to go to college, and while my parents fully supported me becoming an artist, I found myself on a path conforming to what might be more amenable to a patriarchal, capitalist society, one where a salary is necessary and there’s a family to support.
It was in those years where I turned to studying graphic design, working for a corporation, and then eventually starting my own business, that I found myself molding into someone out to “make a living”, desperately seeking to please others above gratifying my own creative self, and far too often listening to other peoples’ advice about what was “best” for me.
I am extremely grateful for and proud of the path I took; the home I’ve contributed to; the family I’ve raised.
And. During those years, while I didn’t necessarily lose who I was, I did allow her to sink into the background.
She came out in glimpses: In the eclectic way I’ve decorated my home; in the diverse relationships with friends and mentors I’ve been blessed to be surrounded by; in the re-prioritization of painting in recent years.
But that high school Cindy — the one truly unafraid to bare her whole self? She’s mostly been hidden.
Being back at my high school reunion reminded me that she’s not too far gone, though. And that if I hold on tight to who I am, I can bring her back to the forefront.
I can create for myself and acknowledge that art is a generous gift to the world.
I can choose rest despite living in a culture that is constantly encouraging hustle.
I can awaken the wildness that’s been tamed over the years.
Life is not without responsibility. And yet, we don’t have to abandon ourselves in an attempt to fit into a society that largely diminishes creative pursuits.
When I consider now what’s “best” for me, I know exactly who to turn to to answer: High school Cindy.
When I hear her voice, I know it’s the truth. And I know that she is the person I will continue to hold on to as I seek to bring more light into the world.
That Rocky Mountain high
I was standing behind my easel atop Rocky Mountain just a couple of weeks ago, when I heard my dad’s voice whisper in my ear, “What do you think of this, Cinc?”
(That’s what he used to call me.)
Chills washed over my body — the good kind.
After all, as I was holding my sweet father’s hand in the final moments before he passed, I voiced one request for him: “Please show me great painting spots.”
And here he was, doing just that.
It was one of our many afternoon escapades during PACE, the Plein Air Convention + Expo. After mornings filled with presentations and demos, we’d hop on a bus that transported us to a beautiful location, where we were free to roam and paint until we were picked up a few hours later.
From the moment I walked into the Westin Westminster upon my arrival at PACE, there was a magical energy in the air.
From beginner to professional, close to 1,000 artists were gathering in this one majestic place for a week devoted solely to plein air painting.
For most of my painting journey, I’ve treated it as a relatively solitary activity. And time in solitude is necessary… to explore and experiment with your style; to find your voice.
And. The more I grow as a painter, the more I realize that painting thrives in community.
Not just any community…
A community of people who know the struggles of self-doubt. A community of people who are willing to be vulnerable. A community of people who, no matter their skill level or years of experience, are perpetually yearning to become a better painter.
I tried very hard for many years to find belonging as a painter.
And I have, through my mentorship + painting voyages with Lori Putnam, through my local studio, Pat Rini Rohrer Gallery, and with certain friends I can call on to paint with whenever the urge strikes. (Which is nearly always.)
And now here I was, swept away in the midst of a community I felt an immediate belonging to, at PACE.
Every artist that gave a presentation or demo on stage didn’t hide their nervousness; didn’t try to mask their vulnerability.
They showed up as the humans they are…
And gave me permission to be the artist who makes mistakes; who still has doubts; who is perpetually yearning to be a better painter.
More importantly, they validated the dream of high school-aged Cindy, who’s vision board at the time was simple: Have a painting in The Met.
For decades, I’ve held that dream in my heart, surrounded by (very loud) inner arguments of, “Who do you think you are?” and “Who are you to reach for this?”
And as each day passed at PACE, those arguments got quieter and the doubts dissipated.
What didn’t dissipate… in fact, what’s grown even stronger since returning home from Denver, is that Rocky Mountain high.
The one pushing me to keep setting my sights on the sky. To keep reaching beyond. To keep intentionally building the community I’ve strived for for so long:
One of vulnerability; of acceptance; of humanity. Void of ego; of arrogance; of judgment. One that values sharing; that teaches; that inspires.
Coming through the speakers of the hotel lobby upon my arrival at PACE was Take Me Home Country Roads by John Denver — the song I had played at my father’s funeral. Too coincidental to be coincidental.
By venturing to this place, by surrounding myself with these people, I’m coming home to myself. To my dreams.
And I will continue to carry that Rocky Mountain high with me as I keep reaching for the stars, lifting up the people around me as I go.
You belong here
I’ll be honest: Typically I don’t write about what the future holds, because, well, you just never know what’s gonna happen.
But when I sat down to write this, I couldn’t help but let myself look forward.
And here’s what I see:
🌿 Me, stepping into a bigger arena… one I can’t even yet imagine the depths of.
🌿 More than 1,200 plein air artists, putting brush to canvas, feeding off of collective energy.
🌿 Mountains that stretch for miles, reminding me that I’m part of something much bigger than myself.
And here’s what I feel when I think about that:
✨ Energized, and ready to welcome in whatever presents itself.
✨ Confident, knowing that I do belong on a bigger stage.
✨ Grateful, for everything that’s led me to this place and everything that is still to come.
This is all top of mind for me as I excitedly pack my bags for next week’s trip to Denver. I’m heading there for PACE, the Plein Air Convention + Expo — the Woodstock of plein air painting.
It’s the 10th year of PACE, but the first time I’ll be attending.
With over 80 painters teaching and more than 1,200 people attending, we’ll be setting the record for the largest gathering of plein air painters in one place. (Thank you, Eric Rhodes, for making plein air more well known in the world!)
And as I envision myself there, among the mountains and my fellow artists who are deeply in love with painting just as I am, I can honestly say I feel a sincere sense of belonging.
I’m not just stepping into a bigger arena…
I’m walking into a stadium of my people; my artist family.
While I’m carefully selecting the supplies I’ll need to pack to capture the beauty of Golden, CO, the nooks of El Dorado Canyon State Park, the light in the Garden of the Gods, and the colors of Rocky Mountain State Park, I can tell you what I’m not spending time doing:
Arguing with the inner voice in my head, who, for years, had the audacity to tell me I’m “less than.”
This time? She’s rooting me on.
She’s reminding me that this is just the first of many grand experiences to come.
That the arena will keep expanding.
And not only am I ready for it all…
I belong here.
On letting the shine out
I was painting along the shore of Seneca Lake in New York’s Finger Lakes last week when I found myself absolutely mesmerized by the light and shadow, the way the lake sparkled, and the blossoming leaves of chartreuse playing out like a time lapse on the trees surrounding me.
The world was shining.
I felt myself taking it in like a sponge, while also feeling overcome with a desire that’s been building in me for a bit now:
The desire to let my own shine out.
I’m celebrating my birthday this month. Another turn around the sun, and another opportunity to be even more of who I am.
I’ve owned a fair amount of titles throughout my life: Daughter, sister, wife, graphic designer, mother, friend…
And I’ve spent years wondering how I can be everything to everyone and do all the things I want to do.
I am wildly blessed; I hold all of these titles and roles as deeply important.
And. The simple answer to my question of how I can be everything to everyone is this:
I can’t.
Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Big Magic (and so much more), shares this question that has deeply inspired her over the years:
“What are you willing to give up to have the thing you keep pretending to want?”
I’ve known from the time I was a little girl, drawing pictures of flowers in my backyard, that I wanted to be an artist.
And while the titles and roles of daughter, sister, mother, wife, graphic designer, and friend are deeply important to me, the one that’s required the most courage for me to step into has been that of painter.
I’ve grappled with it for years, as I parented; as I led a 40-year graphic design career; as I told myself there would always be time later.
So what’s changing now?
I’m not pretending.
I’m not making my art secondary.
I’m putting myself first.
In this busy world, I can’t do it all anymore. I don’t think I really ever could, but I stayed on the hamster wheel as I attempted to keep up. And in doing so, I become a stressed person.
I don’t like that person; nobody else does, either.
As I enter a new year of life, it’s never felt more like the right time to step into my painting with gusto; to be the artist I’m meant to be; to let the world know who I am.
It means embracing vulnerability, standing in my power, and saying yes:
Saying yes to taking up space in my long-admired Plein Air Magazine.
Responding on a whim and getting spotlighted on Outdoor Painter.
Booking a ticket to Denver to attend Plein Air Convention and Expo (PACE) to not only see my mentor, Lori Putnam, speak, but to meet + paint with dozens of other artists I’ve only read about.
I am grateful for everything I’ve done, experienced, and learned in my years on this earth so far — it has all led me to where I am today.
And. I’m ready for the world to see me. I’m ready to allow good things to happen. I’m ready to remain a sponge, soaking up light and inspiration from the natural world; my magnificent grandchildren; the mentors and teachers in my life.
I’m ready to feel the fear and do it anyway. I’m ready to be the love I’ve felt for so long.
As I stare at the sparkling lake in front of me, I know I’m ready to let my own light shine out.
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P.S. Art is an act of generosity, and there’s no better time to make the world a better place than now.
The force behind we
I woke up this morning with the conversation from a recent episode of the We Can Do Hard Things podcast still ringing in my head.
The interview was with Sarah Polley, writer + director of Women Talking, a movie about Mennonite women coming together to make a choice in facing the cruelty they’ve been subject to.
In the conversation, the three hosts of the podcast talk with Sarah about the hard. They talk about art + activism. They talk about coming together.
As I think about what strength means to me on this International Women's Day during Women's History Month, I find myself continuously coming back to connection.
I was raised to “just be happy.” To put a smile on my face. To be grateful for what I have, and not necessarily ask for more.
Gratitude, I’ve got, but this blind optimism isn’t what I needed when I ran into hurdles; when things got hard and I needed to persist.
As I grew into an adult, I realized optimism, alone, isn’t the answer. I needed to both experience and spread help and healing.
And this could only happen as a result of genuine connection.
I’ve found recovery in friendships with fellow artists, writers, friends, and family members.
I’ve realized I’m not alone when I read certain works; listen to certain music; create and consume certain art.
I’ve gained strength when I’ve been in safe places where honest conversations can be had.
There is infinite power to be found through connection — with people, with creative works, with the world around us.
There is a force behind we, much stronger than the one behind me.
In Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act, A Way of Being, he shares this:
“Nothing begins with us. The more we pay attention, the more we begin to realize that all the work we ever do is a collaboration. It’s a collaboration with the art that’s come before you and the art that will come after. It’s also a collaboration with the world you’re living in, with the experiences you’ve had, with the tools you use, with the audience and with who you are today.”
We, too, are a collaboration with the people who’ve helped us heal. Who’ve made us feel less alone. Who’ve let us borrow their strength.
There’s still a lot of work to be done in this world that we can have an impact on.
Because it’s all so big, it can be hard to know where to start.
I propose we begin with connection.
We can leave our mark by being the friend; the artist; the kind human that shows up and connects with others.
We can make this world a better place.
But we can’t do it alone.
We have power. Together.
The surprising gift of self doubt
My grandson, Henry, approached me with the kind of genius idea that can only come from a child’s mind:
With trucks and cars in hand, he asked if he could run them through paint.
Minutes later, I’d put paint on my palette, and there he was, creating artwork with his toy vehicles as the tools.
He had no worries about whether it would be successful. He wasn’t thinking about what it would look like on Instagram. He definitely was not concerned about whether it would be “good enough” to submit to a show.
Just a kid, his cars and trucks, some paint, a canvas to drive around on, and a whole lot of fun.
Every once in a while, that little-kid inspiration comes knocking at my door (sometimes literally; sometimes metaphorically), and I’m reminded to just play.
As I sit on my porch on this unseasonably warm February day, I think about what play releases me from, and it’s an easy answer:
When I approach things from a play mindset, I let go of self doubt.
It’s a freeing feeling, but it also makes me wonder: Is self-doubt a necessary part of being a creative person?
And, more importantly: Is there opportunity in it?
Without self-doubt seeping in here and there, I might not continue to go deeper. I might not explore as much as I do. I might ignore what my heart is reaching for.
I might not play, in the first place.
If I didn’t question myself, I might grow complacent, continuously doing the same thing.
And stagnancy is more scary to me than self doubt.
My word for this year is empowered.
Empowered, to me, is confidence. It’s growing. It’s listening to my heart and intuition in making decisions. It’s becoming stronger. It’s empowering others.
Just saying that word — empowered — makes me stand up straighter at my easel and paint without self doubt.
Okay, with a little less self doubt.
Because if self doubt is the thing that inspires me to keep growing, to keep listening to my heart, and to play, I will welcome it in and take the opportunity it provides.
It’s mid-February as I’m writing this. We’re in the middle of the shortest month of the year that also tends to feel like the longest. And today’s unseasonable warmth comes with winds.
I’m watching the light glisten on the big pine tree branches. Witnessing the dance-like movement and sound that’s coming from the wind whooshing through the trees and the cornstalks. Wondering how to mix that purply-blue-gray I see on the background mountain to have the correct value and chroma and energy.
There’s a force; a wildness. And I can’t help but think of Mary Poppins:
“Winds in the east, mist coming in, like something is brewing, about to begin…”
I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I can’t be sure of what’s brewing.
But I do know “anything can happen if you let it”, and I’m grateful for each and every reminder I have to grow, listen, and play.
The old becomes new again
Each and every January, I find myself embarking upon the same sort of adventure around my home: Organizing + decluttering.
Adventure might seem like a funny word for this, but for me, that’s exactly what it is…
An adventure into the past, the present, and the future.
Last week, as I pulled a dress I wore as a baby from an old trunk, it wasn’t with the goal of purging my possessions.
My organizing and decluttering adventure takes me on a journey to rediscover the treasures I’ve accumulated over the years.
It’s taking time to admire the old snow shoes hanging on my wall or paging through books on the shelves…
It’s spending an afternoon sorting through drawers full of antique lace and running my fingers over old tatting from ancestors…
It’s wandering around the house organizing collected buttons into mason jars; rearranging old tin pitchers; hanging the hats and vintage clothing in different places.
Some people might look around my house and say I have too much stuff.
I look around my home and say I’m surrounded by stories.
I’ve always loved old, vintage things, well before vintage became a trend.
I feel the energy in them. I appreciate the time spent on them. I imagine the people who had them before me, and then assign them a new story based on my imagination that day.
These old “things” are a connection to the past and an opportunity to reinvigorate objects with new life.
They also make up the treasure chest from which I assemble my still life paintings when our freezing, gray winters take over in upstate New York and I’m forced inside to paint.
(Call me a wimp, but I’ll take my tea, music, and studio heat over bitter cold winds and snow!)
Similar to plein air, though, I set up my still lifes in a way that will tell a story, then work to experiment with the light and color until I can express the light and shadows the same way I would a scene outside.
The baby dress I rediscovered last week is currently laid out in my studio, arranged with great care alongside a bowl + pitcher I found at a yard sale and a primitive washboard from my Irish great grandmother, all set in front of an old chest.
Sometimes I take a few minutes to assemble a still life; sometimes hours; sometimes days.
Then I warm my tea, grab my brushes, and paint the story of those old objects bit by bit in the north light that streams through my studio windows.
It’s with these serene painting sessions in mind that I go through my “clutter” each January.
And it’s in these painting sessions where the art lets the light in, the old becomes new again, and the story continues.
Awaken your wildness
The loon breaks the silence of the morning
Awakening a wildness to be who we were meant to be all along
As I dreamt up this year’s holiday card, whose message began with the lines above, I was flooded with a memory from this past summer:
Asleep in our Adirondack cottage in the thick of summer’s heat, I was awakened by a loon on the lake, cutting through the complete silence of moments before.
The sound of a loon is hypnotic; mysterious…and beautiful.
Without thinking, I got out of bed and was drawn to the water’s edge, where I gazed up at the stars and the moon.
The message I heard was clear: It’s time.
Time to slow down.
Time to celebrate the miracles of the past.
Time to recenter and forge my path forward.
Later, as I sat down to write this final note of 2022 on the blog, I found myself reliving other moments and miracles from the year:
✨ Waking up on a beautiful morning after a rain-filled night, with the grass glittering under the fresh and clean sky. The birds singing.
✨ Being with my dad as he passed, and continuing to feel his spirit in different ways daily.
✨ Holding my new granddaughter to my chest for an hour as she slept. Feeling my heart expand even larger than I thought possible with the birth of our third grandchild; three little loonlets to love.
✨ Growing ever deeper in my painting and experiencing the simultaneous magic of being both student and teacher as I passed on what I know through workshops and classes.
✨ Catching the light in flocks of birds; connecting with sheep as they nourished themselves with food; waking up to the sun and feeling it throughout my body.
There are the big trips — to Staithes, Key West, Charlotte, TN, Brooklyn. There are the major transitions — birth, and death.
And then there are the daily miracles that come in small moments and micro connections…
The ones that remind me of how wildly alive we all are.
Not every day brings opportunity for pause, for slowing down, and for reflection.
In the moments I can create for it — through painting, through journaling, through walking and movement — I find myself amazed at the abundance of miracles I can find, even amongst the chaos.
As we usher in the winter solstice and the new year, I hope you find the opportunity to slow down, reflect, and recenter.
In there, I hope you’ll find peace + permission.
Peace in knowing that you are doing the best you can with what you have, and everything will work out as it’s meant to.
And permission to let yourself awaken your wildness and let the next year be expansive.
I’ll leave you with the final lines of my holiday card, as I hope it’s what becomes true for you:
May your new year be invigorating with heart and soul
Full of love and inspiration.
xo Cindy
Bringing back the magic
“CiCi, it’s snowing!”
My 3-year old grandson’s excited voice rang out through the room, beckoning me over to the window to see the flakes fall.
It was our first snowfall of the season here in New York State earlier this week, and I was fortunate enough to be with Henry at the time.
He couldn’t wait to get his hat and gloves out, pull on his snow boots, and experience the feel, smell, and taste of the freshly fallen snow that the ground was struggling to hold onto.
I’ll admit: I didn’t share his level of excitement.
Instead of wonder and awe, my heart suddenly felt…heavy.
A list started forming in my head.
Decorate the house, bake the cookies, design the cards, get the tree…
I felt the weight of it.
In that moment, I shoved it aside to indulge in the magic of the winter wonderland being created outside with my grandson.
But this morning, the list began to replay in my head as I checked the calendar.
As the heaviness began to return, I wondered…
How can I get that childlike wonder back? How can I experience the magic inside of me? How can I feel that joy?
In the past, all of these pieces of the holiday season brought me so much joy. This year, they feel like items on a list that have to be checked off.
I’ve been feeling a lot of this in my life lately. Not just around the holiday to-dos, but in my businesses, in my home…
Things that I typically enjoy have begun to feel like have-tos instead of get-tos.
When that happens, I stop feeling the magic.
As I write this all down now, answers are showing up in the way they tend to.
Slow down.
Eliminate what’s not necessary.
Walk in the woods.
Read. Write. Pray. Paint.
Connect with friends.
Not everything has to get done.
And not everything has to have the jaw-dropping awe of a 3-year old witnessing their first snowfall of the season.
But so much of what we do can be more joy-filled if we approach it with presence.
Folding the laundry? There’s no real magic there. But there’s joy to be had when I can put on one of my favorite playlists and allow myself to feel the different textures and warmth of the towels.
Driving to an appointment? I can call a friend to catch up or sit in much-needed silence as I appreciate the landscapes of the beautiful Finger Lakes region.
Making my Christmas list, and checking it twice? I can eliminate the things that aren’t going to bring me joy this year (knowing they may well in the future), and focus on the things that light me up and mean the most for myself and my family right now.
Life is full of things we can do.
There are myriad things we feel like we have to do.
And there are so many things we get to do.
One of my favorite Dr. Maya Angelou quotes that I’ve surely shared here before goes like this: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
I carry this into my interactions with the people and strangers in my life, but I also take it to heart when looking at my to-do list.
How can I make things feel better?
When I get curious about how I can bring more joy into the things that remain on my list, the magic reappears.
This time of year can be especially tough for many people. If that’s you, take heart. Have courage. Slow down. Don’t worry about getting it all done. Focus on what lights you up and let yourself feel the magic where you can.
I’ll be over here looking ahead to the next snow, ready to steep my tea and watch the flakes fall.
P.S. It seems I have this same question — about renewing wonder — around this time, every year. Life truly is cyclical, and some lessons have to keep being learned.
Living in the Colorful Grays
As we packed up our easels on our last day together in rural Tennessee, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss.
It was, after all, our final invite-only, small group workshop with Lori Putnam, our incredibly talented tour guide who’s nurtured us through countless lessons in our artistry.
My fellow journey-goers and I, now a tight-knit crew of artists who’ve been through four intimate workshops on Lori’s land with her, were on the cusp of being set free; of flying the coop; of earning our wings.
So with that sense of loss came a real sense of excitement, because not only was I about to embark upon a new phase in my calling as an artist…
I also began embracing the lesson I needed most during this last workshop; a lesson I feel I’ve been learning for years:
Learning to live in the colorful grays.
I tend to be an all-or-nothing thinker. Nowhere is this more blatantly apparent than in my plein air paintings, where my shadows tend to show up as the deepest darks they can be.
In Lori’s words, I sometimes take my shadows to “a scary place.”
Maybe it’s the recent passing of my dad. Maybe it’s the shift I’m feeling in my career from a designer to a full-time painter. Maybe it’s the weight of the world right now. Maybe it’s the soon-to-be arrival of my newest grandchild…
The grief I’ve felt, coupled with the excitement and joy I’m experiencing, has made me realize that when shadows appear, I need not go to that scary place.
I’ve experienced enough light to be able to explore the lighter, the warm, and the cool shades of gray.
For nine days together, we studied color. We experimented with gouache. We worked to create an imbalance of the light with the shadow using Notans and sketches.
And in a curious twist of process, we found ourselves collecting info while on the grounds of Bloomsbury Organic Farms in Smyrna, TN. Not painting a particular scene; but assembling a story.
We studied the details: The colors, the values, the light, the shadows. We sketched. We created palettes.
Then, we returned to Lori’s studio, where we told our own version of what we saw in our final painting.
Without the trick of the light right in front of me, and without the deceiving contrast a photo captures, I had only my notes and my memories for reference.
I felt myself embracing these colorful, lighter grays — not painting en plein air; not painting from a photo sitting next to my canvas back in the studio… but bringing in real creativity and composition to tell a story all my own.
I dug deeper into my own reserves, understood more of what I was putting on the page, and ultimately created a piece that embodies my voice even more.
Living in the colorful gray is freeing.
It’s also intimidating.
When we cast the rules aside; break from certain constraints… it frees us up to bring our creativity to the table.
And with that creativity can come uncharted territory.
It’s my plan to stay curious; to keep exploring the warm and cool grays.
I am so grateful for all I’ve learned from Lori. And. I’m grateful she’s kicking us out of the nest.
I cannot wait to see where I land.
An untethered soul + a life well lived
As I was leaning over to grab my bag off the floor of my car the other day, something glimmered.
A quarter, shining up at me.
“Hi, dad,” I thought, my heart swelling with both grief and joy.
I will forever think of my dad when I find random change around. He always seemed to spot it, wherever we went… and now I’m certain he’s leaving it for me.
It’s not just found money that will bring me back to memories of the most kind and caring person in my life.
It’s slow sips of coffee overlooking a foggy Brantingham Lake as a loon peacefully swims by, leaving a long ripple of water behind it, reminding me of the way my dad moved through life leaving ripples of joy, peace, and presence with everyone in his midst.
It’s the taste of blackberries, taking me back to our adventures to his “secret spots” in the Adirondacks, where he’d take my sister and I and our little berry pails, his somehow filling up with handfuls in no time, while ours filled up slowly, berry by single berry.
It’s the strokes of my paintbrush, delving deep into the roots of my plein air painting, stemming from his unabashed love for nature, the land, and animals.
Two weeks out from my dad’s sudden passing, I can say that each of these memories brings more joy than grief, though accepting that he’s actually passed is not easy.
My dad was 88. He lived a good, long life.
We gathered on what could not have been a more perfect September day to celebrate his time here. Evidence of his good life was everywhere: In the sun, in the incredible people who came to pay their respects, and in the love that cocooned us all.
Soon after the service ended, the couple who bought my parents’ home a few years ago approached me.
In their hand was a keychain they’d just found, a Mickey Mouse-themed letter A, that had been hiding on a shelf in the barn that both my parents and my sister and I had thoroughly cleaned out.
Chills went through me. I held that keychain close to my heart, hearing my dad saying, “Just have fun, Cindy. Enjoy life.”
My dad grew up simply, surrounded by nature in the Adirondacks, without most of the comforts we know now: Electricity; indoor plumbing; central heat or air.
He didn’t need much to make an adventure, a blessing he passed on to my sister and I.
He was patient. He was grateful. He was kind. He was a joy to be around.
Most of all, he was present.
Dad lived in the moment.
He pulled his red truck over when we asked to get out to roll down a hill or go for a swim.
He’d sit in a treestand for hours, fancying himself a hunter, but really just there to observe the deer and birds in their natural state.
He smiled a smile of pure joy each and every time he opened a new pair of flannel-lined L.L. Bean pajamas.
He worked hard, yet always had a smile on his face. He never had a list, and yet somehow everything always got done.
When I think of my dad, I’ll remember an untethered soul. A person just happy to be.
Well, dad, I’m just happy I got to be with you.
Thank you for everything. I love you completely.
Tend to your light, first
This morning, as I embarked upon the same ritual I do each and every month of sitting down to write this blog, I had an unfamiliar feeling come up.
I was empty.
Where typically I’d have a dream the night before or a divine download hours before writing, this morning was…different.
I wasn’t getting anything. I wasn’t hearing the voice I normally do. I wasn’t in tune with my inner world like I usually am.
Disheartened, and honestly confused, I pulled on my boots and went out for a walk in the rain.
Just over a mile into the walk, my senses woke up.
I took note of the leaves that seemed to repel water, with giant droplets sitting idle on their surface.
I contrasted that with the leaves that glimmered, shiny from quenching their thirst with the abundant rain.
I noticed the puddles, their shapes, and their reflections. I thought about how my grandson, Henry, loves pulling on his own yellow boots, his little voice saying, “C’mon CiCi, let’s walk in the puddles!”
I talked a bit to the trees. I stood in awe for a second at a vibrant blue jay. I thanked the rain for filling the creek.
By the time I’d finished the 2.5-mile loop around our block, I felt cleansed.
I could breathe again, the feeling of emptiness beginning to dissipate.
As that cloud lifted and my creative cup refilled, I reflected upon many conversations I’ve had with a small group of women I’ve become fortunate to have in my circle.
These women are all empaths: Highly sensitive individuals with an innate ability to sense what people around them are thinking and feeling.
It’s more than a personality type; it’s a way of being in this world — one I’ve recognized as my own.
Being an empath has empowered me as a creative.
It allows me to truly engage in the energy of the scene I’m painting; to intuitively understand the frequencies of the objects I’m sketching; to feel the feelings of the people and animals I observe.
I can fulfill my promise of creating art that lets the light in because of my empathic nature.
And.
As much of a superpower as being an empath is, it doesn’t come without its challenges; it’s threats to my own wellbeing.
In soaking up the energy of the room; in taking on others’ emotions; in letting my own boundaries falter, I easily find myself drained, resentful, and out of touch with myself.
While I’m typically very careful about what I let in for this very reason, life, lately, has been full of very high highs, countered by very low lows.
In just trying to keep up with the pace of things, while also reconciling the deep, hard feelings with the overwhelming joy of the good on the other side, I let my own light burn out.
There isn’t a person I’ve spoken to recently who hasn’t felt some level of this.
And while many of us have gained a resilience we didn’t know we possessed as the world has tested us over the past few years…
One thing we cannot do is continuously carry that which is not ours.
Not without tending to our own roots, first. Getting out in nature. Putting brush to canvas. Speaking to our own spirits. Drinking more water. Sitting in solitude.
Empath or not, we must find our own protections, refill our cups, and rekindle our fire.
The world needs your light. It’s up to you to tend to it so it can keep shining.
I’ll be over here, doing my best to do the same.