Two years ago I put my little FL life into storage and moved home to Vermont for the summer. My mother and her husband were traveling to Alaska for four months and their picturesque country home on a hilltop in that capitol city would be empty save for my dear friend, Murray, who would be housesitting, aka tending to the upkeep of the old home. I signed myself up for the outdoor weekly art market I had participated in years past and made my way north at the end of May that year. I would treat my time like it was an artist residency of sorts. My heart told me to go home and rest. To find my north. To sink into the natural world and allow it to show me my rhythm and routine. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be an artist all the time and if I had what it took.
Quickly, routine found me. I rose early after deep sleep. For the first hour I’d read, write and meditate quietly. After, I’d plug in upbeat music and hit the road for some movement. Upon my returns, I’d be energized. I’d eat, dance, shower and be ready to start painting. I was working on new ideas, painting images of nature onto hats, and exploring watercolor and illustration for the first time. Within a month, as I walked or ran the dirt roads below the hill, ideas came easily to me. They flooded in and would escape just as quickly if I didn’t find some way to capture them. Words, stories and images came effortlessly. It felt exquisite and too good at the same time. Like I was opening up to a new way of thinking but not one hundred percent ready to embrace it.
