To whom this letter finds, There is a quiet exhaustion that comes not from the body alone, but from the need to explain the body. To put words around what is difficult to measure. To justify why energy has changed. To describe something that shifts from day to day. For those living with complex health, this can become its own kind of fatigue. Because not everything visible on the outside reflects what is happening within. And so we try. We explain when we cancel plans. We exp

Hi friends If you’ve wandered with me in these letters, you may have noticed something very interesting happening in the arc of the series now: Listening Rest Regulation Faith Structure And so this letter is an important threshold where I attempt to gently meet fear and untangle it. —————————— There is a quiet fear that often rises when we begin to honour the body. If I slow down ~ am I giving up? It is not always spoken aloud. But it lingers. Especially for those of us who h

“The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear.” That quote speaks into what this studio is becoming a most wonderful hermitage where silence and stillness shines with the simplest of rules: 1. Begin the day in stillness Before the world enters the mind, pause. light a candle sit quietly pray, contemplate and reflect breathe in the new day Even ten quiet minutes roots the day differently. 2. Tend the living world watering plants tending a garden sitting beneath a tree

There are moments when the world feels unbearably heavy. When pain wraps itself around your heart like a thick fog, and the path forward seems blurred, uncertain. In those times, solace is not just a comfort - it is a lifeline. It is the gentle whisper that reminds you: you are not alone. Solace is not a destination but a journey. It is the quiet space where your soul can breathe, where your wounds can begin to mend. And sometimes, it comes from the most unexpected places ~

Dear friends, I open this weeks letter to you on how a particular kind of tiredness reshapes our faith. Not the end of the day kind that sleep easily restores. But the deeper fatigue that settles into the body when health becomes complex and energy unpredictable. In seasons like this, faith changes its posture. It becomes quieter. Less about certainty. More about presence. For many years my prayer life looked structured and strong. Morning prayers, evening prayers, long stret

There is a quiet magic in art. It whispers to us when words fail. It holds space for the feelings we cannot name. When life feels heavy, when pain wraps around your heart like a thick fog, art can be a gentle companion. It invites you to pause, to breathe, to look inward. In those moments, art becomes more than just colour and shape. It becomes a mirror, a sanctuary, a soft place to land. I have found that art for contemplation is not about creating masterpieces or understand

Truly I tell you, that letting myself discern and learn more about the creative processes regarding self portraits ~ I am working how to see myself, and so it is that portraiture is teaching me how to see the world. And so it is that I am diving deeper into the lives and histories of others. That prayer I shared led me deep into the soul of portraiture. If self portraits are a way of learning how to see myself truthfully, then portraiture is how I learn to see others with th

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

“January will be here tomorrow, so for now, the table is set….”

“I sit here as the fourth week of Advent begins…”

“…these red dirt roads are not where faith is tested, but where faith is taught.”

There comes a moment in the interior journey when effort gives way to trust. It is not a dramatic moment. There is no announcement. It arrives quietly and often after we have grown tired of trying to lead ourselves. This is where I find myself now, somewhere between knowing what to do and learning how to be led. In Exodus, the people are not given a map. They are given a presence. A pillar of cloud by day. A pillar of fire by night and a pillar of light inside the soul. They

“…faith doesn’t always arrive as certainty, sometimes it arrives as inheritance…”

I have such big plans for Studio Kre’at and so it is that I am letting December be slow and intentional allowing me to make room for what has been and what will become. And so I sit and reflect, I see how this year has taught me to rest ~ not in what I cannot do, but in what I have been given to do. To bring hope. To carry light. I invite you to sit now with me on my back lawn as the whispers of 2025 and 2026 have found me.

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…”

Dear beloved ones that walk with me here, This quiet Sunday, as the light softens across my little prayer corner, my eyes rest on this simple figure I once painted cross-legged, still, surrendered. A heart in the head. A heart in the chest. A gentle reminder that the truest blessings come when what we know and what we feel finally breathe in the same rhythm. There are days when my head rushes ahead of grace, planning, solving, worrying and other days when my heart carries the

“…God is not done with me yet. Sanctity is already blooming within me , slowly, quietly and faithfully…”

“This week’s Art Spotlight Tuesday brings a piece still in progress, a mixed media work of oil paint and oil pastels, alive with…”