This morning, as part of my January rhythm, I began with a simple question: Where do I sense God’s nearness? There was no immediate answer. No clarity rushing in. Only a quiet invitation to move my body toward stillness. So I went outside and sat beneath my fig tree. Its wide leaves held the light gently, not too bright, not too dark ~ just enough. Earth beneath me. Green pressing close. Breath slowing into something truer. And there, under the fig tree, a line of Scripture

There are words that arrive as invitations rather than plans. They do not come with strategies or timelines. They simply ask to be lived. As I step into 2026, the word given to me is “lamp”. Not a spotlight. Not a flare. Not a floodlight meant to impress or overwhelm. A lamp small enough to be tended daily. It requires attention in trimming, oil, care. It does not rush the dark away, but it does make the next step visible. Much of what will be shared here in the coming weeks

It’s the moments on waking this morning, that have me back in the journal. And after a number of days off, simply to go inwards in a deeper way ~ I know that I am not a content machine. I am a woman simply listening for light. That knowledge allows me wisdom on a grander scale and that slower rhythm wandered honours that wisdom of the vocation I have. This slower rhythm does three sacred things all at once: Protects my interior life Keeps this studio visible Prepares hear

“And so this little painting of washing on the line becomes a prayer in itself…”

There are moments in life when the road beneath us feels like a witness ~ quiet, steady, and strangely alive. It remembers the weight of our steps, the seasons we walked through, and the shifts of heart we carried along the way. This week’s Art Spotlight features a piece that arrived exactly in that spirit: a girl standing on a long, earthy red road, her back turned, just about to walk into a horizon that feels both unknown and deeply familiar. When I painted her, I wasn’t th

I have found that mindful journaling practices can be a tender bridge to that inner sanctuary. Through the delicate dance of words…”

To build emotional resilience in art is to find a way through the storm, a way to manage. heal, grow and even transform.

Here she stands ~ quietly unadorned, unhidden. Every line of her body tells a story of loss, surrender….

There’s a story in this hat, a story that carries dust and wind, sun and silence. When I painted my cowboy hat with cattle tags, I didn’t set out to make a statement. I was simply following the shape of something familiar, something that had held its place in my mind for a long while. But as the layers of paint built up, I began to see what was truly asking to be seen. The cattle tags, in their bright, worn colours gathered around the hat like memories. Each one belonging s

There’s something about the red dirt ~ the way it holds the weight of footsteps and still manages to cradle life at its edges.

Out here, in the quiet stretch between paddocks and sky, stories rise from unexpected places. A water tank becomes a canvas for memory, ...

“Drawing as prayer allows me to express worries, desires, and gratitude to God — transforming the creative process into a sacred…”

This first week of October has been full of movement, of making, and of moments that have asked me to pause and breathe it all in. So...

“My studio floor is a wild tangle of brushes, paint tubes, scraps of paper, and broken pastels. To anyone else, it might look like disorder”