That's SO real, that’s what art should do. Transfer a feeling from me to you, through this beautiful thing, it came through. I’ll be chasing that moment for a long time. 

And then - how DO we chase that moment? It’s not a linear thread, for sure. But in talking to that couple, I was gifted a few clues of how to use connection and sharing your work as a map forward. 

How do you know if you're having too much fun and not taking your art seriously enough? Is silly art still art? The easy answer is yes. But the gold in this question is a bit more nuanced — and it's something I think about a lot in my own studio practice. I am drawn to a certain level of freedom, playfulness, silliness — in art and in life. It wakes me up, makes me laugh. The freedom to exhale, to not cling so tightly to serious meaning and big stakes.

Are you anything like me, and love the euphoria of a good idea, but then halfway down the road you see something shiny — an even BETTer idea — and the next thing you know, you've left a trail of broken projects and art supplies in your wake, without much to show for it? As I see it, there are three challenges that stop us from becoming highly skilled at something. First, picking exactly WHICH thing we want to get really good at. Second, getting stuck in the research or planning phase of HOW to get really good at that thing. And third, staying with it long enough to actually improve.

Inevitably, we can hit a wall, feel a bit flat as we march through the steps over and over. Creative work can fall into the same ruts as any other work in life. We can move on autopilot, pay too much attention to lists, timelines, schedules… and forget the joy and magic and meaning of what we're creating in the first place. Creativity needs sparks. And one of the fastest, most reliable ways to spark it? Pick up a completely different medium.

There’s a reason why I left my desk and came out to the tidy living room to write this blog. My desk is surrounded by pending tasks. Even when “neat,” which is not often, there are piles of papers to file, calendars of future events and tasks, partially completed craft projects, stamps and letters and sticky notes and birthday reminders. 

It’s no wonder my brain goes off to try to mentally tie up all those loose ends. So, how do we solve this conundrum without spending an hour cleaning, then run out of time to write? And - might there be a deeper lesson to learn about how we make decisions…that could help in other areas of life?

Here's something nobody talks about enough: there's a bit of drama out there in the art world — a quiet disdain for the word "hobby" and what it implies. Like if you're not monetizing your passion, you're somehow not serious about it. And on the flip side, going full professional can feel terrifying. Suddenly every piece has to be gallery-worthy, and the stakes feel enormous.

Real hibernation isn't about sleeping through the entire winter (although that sounds amazing sometimes, right?). It's about conservation of energy for survival. It's operating in a lower gear. It's reduced metabolism, which means reduced output—and that's OKAY. Think about what happens underground in winter. Seeds need this cold period to germinate properly in spring. Trees aren't dead—they're doing essential internal work that will allow them to leaf out when conditions improve.

I have always been mesmerized by art museums and galleries. Some paintings I'd breeze right by, but others just pulled me in. The only thing is, if anyone ever asked me about my favorite style, or artists that had influenced me, I didn't have a solid language for describing what I liked and why.

You know that feeling? When you just "like" a piece of art, but you don't really know why, and the conversation kind of ends there? Or someone else shows you a painting they love, and you don't know what to say because it doesn't interest you in the least?

I'm a certified introvert who always shuddered at the words "group project" in school and reveled in long days alone with my own ideas and work. Those solitary days are valuable - we all need different amounts of solitude. But before we bury our heads too deep in the sand, let's look at what we gain from social creating. And it doesn't have to be one of those annoying group projects to provide the benefits.

Creativity is less like following a step-by-step checklist and more like trying to efficiently find a bunch of needles in a bunch of different haystacks.

Some days you find three needles in ten minutes. Other days you spend hours digging through hay and come up empty-handed. And at the end of those empty days, you're left with that sinking feeling: "What did I actually DO today?"

Each expert brings their own philosophy, their own shortcuts, their own way of seeing. You get to cherry-pick the best from each and create your own approach. And because you’re creating your own approach, you’ll progress in your own way, develop a unique skill set, style and way of showing up and adding value to your world. Which feels really satisfying!

Do you catch yourself saying, "Time just flies by!" Or "Weren't the kids just in kindergarten—now they're graduating?? Mind-blowing!" Here's the thing: You're not imagining it. Time really does seem to speed up as we get older. But what if I told you there's actually a proven way to slow down your days and weeks so you can savor the moments of your life instead of just watching them blur past?

Here's what I learned the hard way after twenty years working with brain injury patients: your brain is a physical organ. It needs certain conditions to operate efficiently. You can only rationalize and procrastinate this fact for so long before it catches up with you. If you want your brain to do creative work—the kind that lights you up and makes you feel alive—you just have to take care of the body it lives in.

Today, we're talking about knowing when to cut our losses with the current year—to stop, put down the list, and just reflect. Give ourselves enough time and energy to set up for the weeks ahead. We need to build enthusiasm for 2026, but not let enthusiasm go it alone—let's bring along some left-brain rationality, please!

So I've been doing this thing for the past two days. A daily visualization of my best self. And before you roll your eyes and think "oh great, another woo-woo manifestation thing," hear me out. Because what showed up surprised the hell out of me. I didn't see myself on a beach with a margarita. I didn't see myself accepting an award or having a gallery opening at MOMA.

"So, what's your work about?"

I used to freeze when people asked me this. I'd fumble through descriptions of how I was trying to combine my love of ceramics with my obsession with color and self-expression, and then maybe tie in my science background and Mennonite maker heritage, and... – while the person's eyes glazed over. They didn't want an inventory of influences as I trailed off...they wanted to know what I was saying.

If you're tired of watching your creative goals slip through the cracks week after week, you need accountability. And there's no one-size-fits-all approach. Whether you're an introvert who needs deep one-on-one connection or someone who thrives in group energy, there's an accountability structure that fits your personality and budget.

Whether you're setting up an art studio, a home office, a writing nook, or just trying to make space for that guitar you swear you'll learn—most of us arrange our spaces backwards. We Pinterest our way into pretty corners that photograph well but don't actually support what we do - or we just go with the default of setting things down without a plan. But there's a better way that actually makes life easier.

You know that thing you've been wanting to get better at? The skill that's been on your "someday" list for months—or years?

Maybe it's finally playing that dusty ukulele you bought during the pandemic. Or going from beginner pottery student to confident artist who can make that dinner set you've been dreaming about.

Let me tell you how I first learned the value of a personal project 25 years ago, and how this concept is still helping me today.

My sister teaches in a Montessori classroom, and she recently told me something that stopped me in my tracks. One of her students had built a Jenga tower—you know, the game where you stack wooden blocks and then carefully remove them one by one until the whole thing comes crashing down. But this kid had just finished building it, and my sister was struck by how solid and sturdy it looked when all the pieces were intact. That's when it hit her: this is what our lives look like.