Artist, Interrupted?

I remember the yellow ribbon. It hung beside my picture when I was in second grade. It was my first art award. My piece, In My Backyard, elicited chuckles from my parents.

"Whose backyard is that?" they both asked, looking at the 11x14 sheet of red construction paper with black cut-outs of people and a swing set.

"Isn't that ours?" I remember thinking, though I never said it out loud.

Suffice it to say, it was my version of my backyard.

In sixth grade, I created my first acrylic painting. I used little glass jars of paint on a bumpy 4x6 sheet of paper that came with the kit. I painted poinsettias, and my teacher submitted it to the city's art competition—open to every student from Kindergarten through twelfth grade in Medford, Massachusetts. I was named Artist of the Month. My parents were confused. You see, I wasn't supposed to be an artist.

And for a long time, that would be true.

I set art aside until college. Drawing 101. Required. I hated it. I loved it.

I drew everything around me. My blonde Windsor chair. A long blue wool coat. Sneakers. Lamps. Fruit. Boxes. Bottles. My most detailed pencil drawing—that beloved coat, perfectly matted in ivory—wasn't selected for the college art show.

I put the drawing away. I didn't look back.

Apparently, I wasn't supposed to be an artist after all.

Twenty-five years later...

My daughter was leaving for college. My youngest son was preparing for Navy boot camp. My oldest son would soon head to Air Force basic training.

I enrolled in a class at the community art school where my children had once taken lessons.

Drawing: The Beginner and Beyond. Once again...I was the beginner. I hated it. I loved it. Oh, my old friend...I loved it. I drew everything. Boxes. Balls. Chairs. Shadows. Pumpkins. Then my instructor introduced color. Everything changed. My drawings exploded with it. Soon I picked up watercolor. Too messy. Then acrylic. Magic.

Whenever I traveled for half marathons, I'd return with hundreds of photographs—not of finish lines, but of trees, bridges, weathered doors, boats, shadows, reflections, and clouds.

I'd draw them. I'd paint them. Art poured out of me.

Pottery wasn't nearly as magical.

The first class was awful.

A ball of clay launched itself off the wheel when I accidentally hit the pedal. Sludge splattered everywhere while I struggled to center the clay, coating me from head to toe. I somehow managed to leave a trail—and then a puddle—across the studio floor while trying to clean up.

I made nothing. My arms ached. The grit in the clay rubbed my hands raw. I was soaked, cold, exhausted, and seriously questioned whether I would ever return. Ironically, Angela Duckworth's theory of Grit became my pottery instructor long before I ever finished a decent bowl.

Centering still isn't always centered. I still don't make two pieces exactly alike. I occasionally trim right through the bottom of a pot. Glazing continues to be one giant chemistry experiment that lands somewhere between, "Oh...I can live with that," and, "What did I do?"

For years, though, I kept wondering why art kept finding me.

Sometimes it was an emotional refuge.

Sometimes it was a technical challenge.

Sometimes it became functional—creating bowls, mugs, and plates people could use every day.

At the same time, I had devoted my professional life to psychology. I thought I was studying other people. Looking back, I realize I was searching for myself. I wanted to understand why we become who we become. How experiences shape us. Why some people heal while others remain stuck. Somewhere in that pursuit, I also learned how to truly listen.

Working with children, art became another language—a way to express feelings before they had words. What puzzled me was how often adults needed that very same language. We don't stop needing symbols, color, or creativity simply because we grow up. We simply forget they're available.

Still, I didn't understand the place art held in my own life.

Then we moved to Maine.

COVID had shut everything down. One of the reasons we chose this area was because there was a pottery studio nearby. Ironically, I wouldn't have had time to use it anyway.

We arrived over one very hot August weekend, making two trips with a twenty-six-foot moving truck.

I drove the cats.

They howled almost the entire four-hour drive. There was one brief stretch as we wound over hills and around sharp turns when they grew completely silent. I remember thinking maybe the rhythm of the road had soothed them. It lasted all of thirty seconds. Then the yowling resumed.

Before we'd even purchased the farmhouse, I had already begun designing. I had "schemes" on paper, with samples of fabrics and hardware. Paint colors. Tile. Wallpaper. I had beautiful plans.

What I hadn't planned on was suddenly becoming the person responsible for deciding where every light switch and electrical outlet belonged. Apparently...We became the general contractors.

For two years, I learned nearly every skill short of wiring the house and plumbing it. I wallpapered rooms, restored old walls, refinished surfaces, solved problems I'd never imagined solving.

Looking back, that was art too. Functional art. Creating beauty where time had left neglect. Or, maybe, just some bad design choices.

Eventually, the dust settled. Literally.

I unpacked my paints. Set up my easel. Opened my old tubes of acrylic. Touched brush to canvas...and everything I'd knew or ever learned disappeared.

The yips.

Who knew painters could get them too? Instead of forcing it, I picked up pastels. Colored charcoal. I drew places Rob and I had traveled. Memories became landscapes. Flowers became earrings. Pressed blossoms became necklaces. Crystals found their way into my hands until jewelry seemed to appear almost on its own.

Creativity refused to stop flowing. It simply kept changing mediums.

Then I stepped into shamanic training. Not because I needed another credential.

Trust me—you don't want the list of licenses, certifications, credentials, and initials I've collected over the years.

I stepped into it because something was calling me.

And somewhere along that path, the answer came quietly.

Art had never been the point.

Art was my voice.

The voice I'd learned not to trust. The voice I'd allowed other people to define. The voice that, despite every interruption, never actually stopped speaking.

Suddenly everything made sense.

Why I was painting vegan drums instead of pastoral landscapes. Why I was making gourd rattles by hand, decorating them with feathers, beads, and crystals. Why creating Aura Spray felt every bit as creative as mixing paint. Even baking became another form of artistic expression and intention.

Just this weekend I stood in the grocery store reading the ingredients on bag after bag of chocolate chips. Hydrogenated oils. Artificial ingredients. Chemicals I couldn't pronounce. I couldn't buy them. Never mind bake with them and offer them to someone else. So every recipe became another experiment. Another chance to ask...

"How hard could it be?"

I hope you're laughing.

Because by now you know the answer. I can't follow a recipe without asking why. I want breakfast treats and desserts to nourish as much as delight. It turns out that's entirely possible...if you're willing to pay attention.

Today, I realize art isn't confined to a canvas.

It's in counseling.

It's in ceremony.

It's in the workshops I teach.

It's in the coffee we choose to serve.

It's in every product we carry in our Farmhouse Store.

Everything is chosen with intention—from where it's made to who made it, from how it's sourced to the person who eventually brings it home.

We're not trying to become the next fast-paced destination. We're trying to create something different. A place where people can slow down. A place where beauty, kindness, health, community, and nature all belong in the same conversation. A place that quietly reminds us that small choices matter.

Looking back now, I smile at the little girl whose backyard didn't make sense to anyone else.

She wasn't drawing the wrong backyard. She was simply seeing the world through her own eyes.

The artist was never interrupted.

She was simply searching for her own voice.

And once she found it...

she discovered it had been speaking all along.

Want to explore your inner artist? Visit: https://www.theriverrunsthrough.com/workshops