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Return

“Ok,” I said, grabbing a scrap of paper and a pen. “Give me some ideas.”

“Sledding!”

“Hot chocolate!”

“Puzzles!”

“Art making!”

“Ice skating!”

“Soup!”

“Cozying up around the fire!”

“Dinners with friends!”

“Dance parties in the living room!”

Seren, Shon, and I were sitting around the table after our fancy Saturday morning breakfast, making our Best Winter Ever! list—a ritual we started during the pandemic. Before each new season, we make a list of the things we most want out of the upcoming months. Best Summer Ever! or Best Fall Ever! tops our list. Then we toss out ideas, writing them all down. That first summer of the pandemic, we were determined to live our lives to their fullest, within the confines of that moment. For us it meant hiking and swimming, backpacking and eating outside with friends. Two years later, with Shon’s treatment in full swing, Best Summer Ever! included comfy lawn chairs next to the baby pool instead of big hikes. I can’t say it was the best summer ever, but it was the best summer the moment allowed—and was magical in its own way.

I looked down at our list and smiled. Shon still had a lot of rebuilding to do, but our list wasn’t defined by cancer.

This ritual reminded me of another. In early sobriety, when Shon and I lived at Delphinia, the path to our cabin wound through the woods, filled with native plants and animals. Roads and pathways often invite invasive species, and this one was no different. The edge of the path was filled with Herb Robert, AKA ‘stinky Bob’, an annual non-indigenous geranium that, like its namesake, smells awful. I spent hours pulling out this plant as a meditation. As I pulled each one, I imagined I was making space for the native plants, the ones intended to be there. Simultaneously, I imagined gently removing the weeds that had grown in my mind, making room for the flowers to bloom.

Ten years later, living on different land, I still drop into this meditation. A few months after making our Best Winter Ever! list, I looked at my work calendar for the upcoming year. My old scarcity complex caught, and I felt panic begin to rise. This time I wasn’t afraid of too little work, but of too much. How would I get it all done and still have time for my child? Before my mind could spiral too far, I set down my calendar and went to the garden. I kneeled—knees instantly soaked from the wet ground—and focused on just the spot in front of me. I took a breath to center myself and began pulling weeds, making space for peas and calendula. Seren was older now, I reminded myself. Shon was there too. As I pulled weed after weed, I remembered another garden scene from the year before.

One day while we were in Seattle for one of Shon’s treatments, Jen stayed with Seren. In the garden, Seren picked kale flowers, handing them to Jen and saying, “I’m picking these for papa. You know kale flowers cure cancer, right?”

Jen responded, “No, I didn’t. That’s amazing!”

We came home late at night to find a small bouquet of kale flowers on the kitchen table—Seren’s faith in kale flowers curing cancer a tiny beacon of hope.

I shook the dirt off a deep-rooted weed and imagined planting the garden with Shon and Seren come spring, imagined calling Jen for her garden wisdom. I took another breath and stood up, brushing the dirt from my fingers.

We were going to be alright.

Shon’s cancer journey was terrifying, a constant reminder of life’s fragility. Yet it brought us closer in ways we hadn’t experienced in a long time—perhaps ever. Cancer forced us to realize how close our own mortality is, reminding us that today really might be all we have, helping us to see the beauty of the moment. It’s hard to hold onto this in day-to-day life, and we don’t always manage to. When we do, it grounds us in the beauty of ordinary moments.

The miracle of this time was that instead of losing a parent, Seren gained better versions of both parents. We got through this in part because we had access to incredible medical care. Partly because we got lucky. And partly because we chose not to go through it alone—Shon’s cancer journey deepened our connections within our community in ways we never expected.

We celebrated Shon’s 50th birthday just a few short months after learning he was in remission. Lounging in the grass, surrounded by friends, the March sun glinting off the tears in our eyes, Shon and I did our best to express the gratitude we felt for everyone there—how held we were during that precarious journey, how our child was held.

Friends shared their own experiences of that time. Jen recalled me telling her about the time Shon had asked me over lunch with Seren, what I would do if he wasn’t there anymore. How she couldn’t believe I could answer him calmly and not freak out. Our kid was right there! Of how sobering it was when I responded, “Jen, this is our life right now. We’re having these conversations all the time.”

In many ways, Shon and I were both on our own recovery journeys. Even though Shon was in remission, the cancer damaged his lung. He did breathing exercises daily and took medications to clear his lungs. He worked hard to rebuild his energy and immune system. There was always the risk of him getting an infection that his lungs couldn’t clear. He tended to his health daily, just as I tended to my sobriety. Sometimes the vigilance wore on us, but we did our best to support one another.

To honor the milestone of my 10-year sobriety anniversary, I pulled out the same 1,000-piece puzzle I put together when newly sober. This time, I was determined not to work alone. Instead, I made a giant pot of Carrie’s Curried Coconut Calabaza stew and hosted a puzzle party to celebrate. Friends gathered—those in recovery and those who simply walked through life beside me—filling our home with easy laughter. People stopped by throughout the day to fill their bellies and help put the puzzle together, sharing stories while we searched for pieces that fit. With so many hands, the puzzle progressed much faster than when I did it on my own.

A few weeks later, Seren cuddled on my lap, Shon sitting across from us, we worked on the puzzle—it was almost done. I met Shon’s eyes, then handed each of them one of the final puzzle pieces. We slid them into place simultaneously, completing the picture. Shon slid over to our side and put his arm around us. We gazed at the puzzle, finally able to see all of the hidden images inside of the greater whole.

I settled into the moment—the three of us, the completed puzzle, the hidden images finally visible. A place of rest before the cycle began again.

The End

What does return look like for you—and what hidden images are only now coming into focus?

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Nam’u qas

Even as the wilderness soothed and rooted me, it also prepared me for what came next. Carrying the clarity and connection I found in the wilderness, I stepped into a new form of integration—a collaborative mural project in Vancouver, Washington, led by Cowlitz tribal member and incredible artist Sarah Folden. The mural project took place in a new building that would house foster kids who were transitioning out of the foster care system, many with babies of their own. It was designed as a landing place—support built into the walls—for young people beginning to take flight. The building, called Nam’u qas, means Hope in the Cowlitz Salish language.

The smell of paint was strong as I reached up, pulling my paintbrush along the edge of the tree to create a crisp line, following Sarah’s design. At the far end of the hall, Sarah painted a magnificent bull elk—the sun rising between his massive antlers—with a youth artist. As they worked, Sarah passed on her knowledge, pointing out elements of the design that came from their shared Coast Salish culture.

As I watched this knowledge pass from hand to hand, I felt deeply humbled—honored to take part in this culturally significant work. In addition to myself, her crew consisted of three young Cowlitz artists and a young trans man, each of whom walked through life with wisdom and grace; each of whom had a story that both broke and expanded my heart. Sarah wanted to give these young artists their first opportunities in public art, and a chance to begin building their public art portfolios. We’d found each other through social media, meeting in person for the first time at Nam’u qas—paint cans between our feet, brushes in hand.

It was an ambitious project, including 16 murals on four floors, all designed by Sarah. Still, at four o’clock, Sarah told us all to call it a day. We sealed paint cans and washed brushes, readying the space for the next day. The well-being of her crew took precedence over productivity. I thought about the endless hours of work that my family modeled for me, and how this was so different. It spoke to a quieter way of doing things. It spoke of abundance.

Standing at the counter in the gorgeous house that Sarah rented for us to stay in, I flipped through a recipe book, consisting entirely of decadent things to put on toast. I listened as Sarah told one of the young artists some of the heartache that propelled her own journey to become an artist. Then watched him share back pieces of his own trauma. I was humbled to see how they lifted each other up, how I felt lifted in turn.

I turned 44 on the third day of the project. Sarah surprised me with a box of chocolates that morning and made the call to take off work early that day to celebrate—it was over 100 degrees outside, so we headed to the water. What a treat to submerge myself in a pristine mountain river on my birthday, surrounded by amazing humans, on what felt like an artist retreat. Pure bliss.

Passing of the Newts

I arrived home in time to draw Seren a giant chalk maze of a monarch resting on a flower for her birthday. As I sketched the pathways through the butterfly’s wings, I thought about the monarch’s generational migration: It takes multiple generations for monarchs to travel from Mexico, through the United States, to Canada, and back again. No single butterfly makes the entire journey—each one carries it forward, then passes it on.

The work we are doing to create a better world is the same—it’s more of a relay race than a marathon. Sarah passing on knowledge to youth artists with a paint brush. High school students choosing hope. Quasar and Cecily creating space for that discovery. Jen. Shon. Seren. All of us, carrying something forward. Healing little by little, helping each other along, and passing on knowledge so that the journey can continue.

When Seren awoke in the morning, she went straight to the window to see if there was a maze, squealed, and ran outside. She joyfully navigated the maze from the bottom of the stem, through wings, to the center—finally reaching her presents, she tore into them with delight.

We made her favorite, Chocolate Heart-beet Cake, and celebrated her with friends, including some we’d made during the mother child retreat. Seren led her friends on a bug scavenger hunt, then worked together to make a bug circus and insect hotel. In the late afternoon sun, Shon smashed a watermelon onto the trunk of a huge cedar tree in our front yard to peals of laughter. It exploded onto the fabric below and hands dove in, scooping up sweet chunks of watermelon, then licking sticky fingers clean.

August is our month—my birthday, Seren’s birth, and our anniversary all housed in the heat of summer. A few days after the party, Shon and I marked our eleventh wedding anniversary, eighteen years since our first date, with another adventure. Instead of a hard-core hike, the three of us did a very easeful backpacking trip, camping at our favorite secret lake in the mountains for five days of swimming, playing games, hiking, and eating delicious food.

I dove into the cool water of the lake, swimming downward after the wriggling tail of the newt. I gently scooped it in my hand and returned to the surface, gasping for air. I handed the newt to Seren, then dived again and again until I caught seven newts to celebrate Seren’s seventh birthday—a ritual we’d begun a couple of years prior. Seren played with the newts in a habitat she created. Then, she picked each one up like a living spell and released it back into the water. We watched as each newt swam from her fingers down into the depths until it disappeared.

After Seren was asleep, Shon and I watched the stars and reveled in the quiet, wrapped in each other’s arms.

When it was time to leave, we paused at the lake’s edge once more. I reached down, touched the water, and said thank you. As I walked up the trail to Shon, I paused and looked back. Seren still lingered at the lake’s edge, fingers trailing in the water. Her quiet voice sang out, “Thank you, Secret Lake. I’ll miss you. We’ll be back soon.”

What are you carrying that's meant to be passed on?

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Integration

Seren was goofing around as I practiced yoga in the living room and one of her feet bumped my cheek. I dropped to the floor as if I’d been hit with a battering ram, racking sobs tearing from my body. I didn’t understand why I was crying—my face didn’t hurt—but I couldn’t stop. Shon and Seren wrapped their arms around me as I cried. Shouldn’t I be over this by now?

And most days, as I leaned into gratitude of having Shon back, I did feel over it. But there were still sharp corners and shards of grief stuck inside, just waiting to be released—I foresaw my process of integrating the past year and a half as messy, falling apart, flailing and grappling, as I tended those jagged places.

I took this messy vision of integration to a Wilderness Retreat for Mothers and Children—five days and four nights off grid, sitting in council with other mamas, connecting with the land, each other, and ourselves, while our children were well tended. Seren and I passed the four-hour drive chatting, listening to stories, and singing songs. When we pulled off the gravel road to park on the dry grass, our guides welcomed us and showed us where we could camp. We gamely slogged our camping gear back into the trees and set up our tent, then headed to the ranch house to meet the other kids and mamas. From one moment to the next, it seemed, we were drawn into the circle, the earth, the now.

Seren and I left the retreat with full hearts and sweaty bodies, both of us missing Shon and ready to sleep in our own beds. I slept deeply that night, snuggled between Shon and Seren, who had snuck into our bed in the middle of the night. My time home was sweet, but short. I was home for less than twelve hours before leaving on another five-day adventure, this time on my own—my first solo trip in years.

What does integration look like for you—and has it ever surprised you?

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Hope as Action

The wet sand slipped through my fingers, adding to the sandcastle we were building, handful by handful, the spires growing taller and spindlier. I caught Seren’s eye as we raced the incoming tide—frantically digging a moat around our castle to divert the waves, laughing as the sand is pulled out from beneath a spire and it collapses back into the sea.

We were on the coast of Spain, reveling in the slight breeze from the Mediterranean Sea. Shon had planned to go to Barcelona for a conference the year prior, but the cancer stopped that. Now in remission, he finally felt he could live again.

This trip was our celebration—a much needed break for each of us. It allowed space to process Shon’s cancer journey, to rest and relax, to connect with each other, ourselves, and our beautiful planet. It was my first trip to Europe, and I didn’t know what to expect. I imagined that all the wild spaces would be developed, built up by humans, except for a few natural remnants. To my surprise and joy, this was far from reality. A week into our adventure, standing on a Mediterranean beach, bordered by red rock cliffs, I found myself completely enchanted with Spain.

There are so many highlights of this trip: eating gluten-free baguettes with local cheese and olive oil at the beach, chasing pigeons with Seren, building sandcastles and playing in the waves, seeing old-growth olive trees, exploring 2,000-year-old ruins and tiny mountain villages. Then, leaving Spain to soak in hot springs in the mountains of Iceland and ride Icelandic horses. There is nothing like international travel to bring me back to the present moment. While on this break from work and the problems of the world my body’s aches and pains receded—several years’ worth of stress slowly sifting away with the crashing of the waves.

As I returned from this time of beauty and connection, I carried with me not just memories, but a renewed sense of purpose. It was with this mindset that I met Quasar and Cecily, two incredible teachers at our local alternative high school. We were planning to work together with their students over the following four weeks on a collaborative Art in Action project. The title of their class—From Climate Crisis to Action: Is it too late to Hope? —was a big title for a big problem. On my way to this meeting, I could feel stress circling, wanting to land within. I brought in a mantra that a mentor gave me a while back: “Time is my friend. Time is my friend.” Allowing ease to be my guide.

I entered Quasar and Cecily’s classroom, hugged them both, and spent the next few minutes catching up. After hearing a bit about my trip, Cecily said, “I suppose you’ll have to pick up all the balls you set down during your trip and start juggling them again.”

“Oh no,” I replied, “I’m not juggling balls, I’m juggling balloons. They just slowly float down and if I drop a balloon, it doesn’t break. Then I can pick it up again at my convenience.”

They both loved this visual, exploring the metaphor further. Quasar, a mother of two young children, said she’d been imagining juggling glass balls, or maybe fragile dishware, and that my balloon analogy felt so much gentler and more attainable, adding to the analogy that sometimes the wind might blow a balloon away and that would be okay too.

In fact, a couple of my metaphorical balloons had blown away during the previous week. When a balloon drifts away, it’s up to me to Trust the wind to carry it where it needs to go—and to bring back something even more aligned with my purpose. While I mourned the work that fell through, as an Artist, rejection is the norm—if I let the rejection define me, or my work, I would never get anywhere.

Quasar and Cecily shared what they’d focused on with their students over the previous few weeks, and we began exploring concepts for our collaborative art project. As we tossed ideas back and forth, an image formed in my mind. In one hand, I was holding a terrible weight of suffering. In the other, I shared the breathtaking view of the red rock coast of Spain with Shon and Seren. I held each vision lightly as I could—the sorrow and the joy, the destruction and the love. As I shared this imagining, shivers coursed through my body. I’ve come to know this as a sign to pay attention—that something magical is in the works. As we explored the concept that was tingling through me, we contemplated the duality of this life we live, and the overarching question of the class itself: Is it too late to hope?

Life is filled with hard realities and sometimes terrible things happen. At the same time, our planet is incredibly, mind-bogglingly beautiful and nurturing. How do we hold these two truths simultaneously? Tears came to my eyes as I thought of the beauty that I’d experienced with my family over the past three weeks: bare feet in the sand on the Spanish coast, wild rosemary growing in the mountains, and 1,200-year-old olive trees in Spain. Waterfall after waterfall after waterfall in Iceland. Then returning home to find everything green and fresh with life, birds singing, and the sun shining. This world is filled with so much beauty that I overflow with emotion.

On my first day with the students, we got to know each other a bit, and I shared some of my previous work with them. I talked about what hope means to me: “For me,” I said, “hope is a choice, a choice based in action. Hope is powerful. It is what inspires us to take action. Sustained hope requires action—if we stop at hope, not only is whatever we are hoping for unlikely to manifest, there is nothing to keep our hope alive. The two are inextricably linked.”

Then I asked those thirty high school students the big question: What does it mean to hope? Thirty students who spent their middle school years living through a global pandemic. Thirty students who might or might not believe they even have a future. I had no idea what they would say, or if they would even give an answer.

They did. Every single student shared their idea about what it means to hope.

“Hope is a choice,” one student shared. “The alternative is to give up, lie down, and die.”

Another shared: “We’re living in a constant state of anxiety because of the climate crisis, so feeling anxiety is almost normal for us. But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t hope”

“Is it too late to hope?” I asked the room at large.

“No, it’s not too late,” one student said firmly. Others nodded, murmuring agreement.

These young people are showing us how to do this work—how to show up even when it’s hard, and to engage with one another in the midst of the terrible beauty of our reality. It was this delicate balance of beauty and sorrow that we explored together. Over the next week I led them through a collaborative design process, discussing our project goals, guiding them to express their own understanding through art, considering who our audience was. What kind of impact were we trying to achieve?

Our design ultimately included a fabric mural of Olympia, WA, with Mount Tahoma, a.k.a. Mount Rainier, in the background. Students pasted words of gratitude—inspired by the Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address, made popular by Robin Wall Kimmerer in her eloquent book Braiding Sweetgrass—into the mountain itself.

While some students designed and painted the mural, others painted large, double-sided, paper water drops—many hands creating in tandem. Suspended in front of the mural, the double-sided drops encapsulate a paradox of our existence. On one side, each drop illustrates a regenerative economy brimming with potential; the flip side reveals the stark contrast of an extractive economy that diminishes. It is a balance of sorrow and beauty, where one side may depict the throes of despair and destruction, and the other side is always reaching out towards active hope.

To accompany our installation, the students crafted an artist statement that captured the heart of our message. Part of it reads as follows.…

Once again, young people are leading the way, showing what it means to hope, to act, to stand up in the face of adversity and despair.

Ours is a realm of stark contrasts. Contemplating the senseless casualties of war, the heartbreak of a species lost, or the tragedy of baby birds perishing in their nests due to record breaking heat, can weigh heavily on my spirit. Yet there’s a moment of transition, a stepping beyond into the awe-inspiring splendor of the world around me. I find it in the laughter shared with my child, the comforting embrace of my partner, the sheer rightness of the natural world.

It is in embracing these conflicting realities—the harrowing and the sublime—that I find clarity in my purpose, in my individual impact. Engaging in just one intentional act creates momentum. By embracing hope, voicing my truth, daring to step beyond the familiar shores of comfort with as much honesty and compassion as I can, even as I stumble and make mistakes, I navigate through life’s complexities with a renewed sense of purpose and sometimes, even ease. And no matter the challenges, I remind myself of this: Fighting for beauty is the most hopeful thing I can do.

Where in your own life is hope asking you to take action—not someday, but now?

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Art as a Global Connector

Not long after we learned Shon was in remission, I set up my virtual stage—a tapestry of monarchs painted on black behind me, computer and lights in front. I’d been chosen to keynote and close out the Eco-Librium International Conference. This virtual conference brought together artists, educators, activists, and scientists from across the globe to not only talk about the role of art in creating a Climate Just future, but to activate cross-cultural collaborations. In both sessions I guided participants through a meditative journey inside of a chrysalis, where a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly.

In my closing session, I asked participants to close their eyes. “Feel your feet flat on the floor,” I said. “Your connection to the earth, to others on this call—even those on the other side of the planet. Now, imagine yourself, our entire society, inside of a chrysalis. Your tissues melt into a virtually undifferentiated, primordial goo. Within that goo are something scientists call imaginal cells—seeds of future potential, holding the blueprint of what’s next to come.”

I walked them through the process. How imaginal cells are first attacked as threats. How they persist, multiply, connect. How they begin resonating at the same frequency, passing information back and forth until they hit a tipping point—and a butterfly is born.

“We are in the chrysalis of humanity, right now,” I told them. “We are the Imaginal Cells, holding the vision for a future where we not only survive, but thrive.”

“What does this new world look like?” I asked. “How does it feel to be part of it? What will you do to make this vision a reality?”

I invited them to think back on the letters they wrote to themselves during my keynote—about what held them back and what they were committing to, to move through their blocks. I asked them to drop their commitments into the chat in a waterfall of words. As the words poured in, I asked them to unmute, turn on cameras. “Who feels inspired?” Faces filled the screen. “Motivated?” More nods. “Scared?” Nearly everyone.

“Of course we’re scared,” I said. “The entire world is scared. We’re constantly bombarded with melting ice caps, disappearing species, poverty, wars, fires. We shut down. We run. Or we say, ‘I’m just one person. The problems are too big.’”

I leaned toward the camera. “Here’s the real problem: We’re essentially asking people to transform their entire way of relating to the earth, and we haven’t given them a vision of a future that’s more attractive than the one they currently have.”

My voice rose. “It is our job to turn the dominant narrative from scarcity to abundance. From ‘have to’ to ‘get to.’ We GET TO do this work. We have the power to shape the world. We ARE the Imaginal Cells.”

Voices rose in response: “Yes!” “We ARE!” “Let’s do this!”

After the conference, my whole body was zinging with energy. I went for a run, then tried to get back to work. But I was so exhausted I sank down and lay on the floor. As I lay there, my body pressed into the carpet, I felt myself as an Imaginal Cell; felt myself connected with others who were working towards a better world. Some were halfway across the globe. Some were right in my own community. Distance didn’t matter. We were connected like the intricate network of mycorrhizal fungi linking trees in an old-growth forest. And I knew. I knew throughout my entire being that we are the Imaginal Cells—we are creating a world in which we not only survive, but thrive.

As I lay on my office floor, I considered my own shift. I had believed in the possibility of creating a better world for quite some time, in an abstract way. In that moment I knew it in the core of my being: This reality is not just a possibility; it is already happening. Artists are weaving creativity into the foundation of change, much like the mycorrhizal networks that connect and sustain life, ensuring that the vision of a better world is not only seen, but felt by all.

I took in the moment, letting the connection settle deep inside, banking it like a hot coal for the next bleak day. Then I took a deep breath, pushed myself off the floor, and went back to work.

When have you felt truly connected to something larger than yourself—and what did that knowing do to you?

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Exhale

Months after our mountain adventure, in winter 2023—after a year and a half of holding our breath through doctor’s appointments, chemo, and so much uncertainty—we cautiously allowed ourselves to exhale.

Shon had just received the results of his latest CT scan and a call from his oncologist, Hootie: He was in complete remission from cancer.

As we took in this news, the relief was staggering—exhaustion released like a dam breaking under the pressure of its own weight. Still, it was a cautious relief. We would need time to trust that we were through the storm. To celebrate, we packed our swimsuits and headed to our favorite rustic resort on the Washington coast. There, we tried to wrap our heads and hearts around this incredible news. We splashed and laughed in the pool with Seren. Felt tension release with the hot steam of the sauna. Breathed in the cold mist as we sang our gratitude to the ocean, tears mingling with ocean spray as El Mar accepted our grief and relief. Later, we shared decadent desserts on the bluff above the ocean with Jen’s family, Seren’s eyes alight as the server torched the top of her crème brûlée.

We returned home from the ocean clearer and lighter, but I still felt untethered.

That February, Shon, finally feeling well enough to get on a plane, took Seren to Iowa to visit family. It was their first overnight solo adventure together and marked a significant milestone in Shon’s recovery. As they packed to leave, I felt my need for control rise—questions ready to spill from my lips: Did you pack all of your medicines? Enough snacks for Seren? Her favorite stuffie? Warm clothes? At the last moment, I stopped myself. After over a year of being cared for, Shon needed me to trust that he could do this on his own. I didn’t want to diminish the huge and gratifying moment this was for him. I needed to believe he had everything covered—and if something was left behind, they’d figure it out. So I kept my questions to myself, poured all my love into them as I drove them to the airport, and hugged them as tightly as I could before watching them walk away together.

Finally, I had time to rest. But I hardly knew how. My immune system took over, and I got sick, giving me little choice but to slow down. Alone in my quiet house, wrapped in blankets, I finally stopped moving.

In my slowness that week, I found that part of me was terrified of stepping into this ever-growing role as an Artist and Change Maker. Instead of trying to dismiss this fear or push it away, I welcomed it. I gave her a home.

I literally painted a home for her.

I pulled out an old canvas I’d been working on but never finished. There was an iridescent spiral over dark paint, leaf prints flowing towards the center. Quickly, I sketched a figure, seated in meditation, then used dark brown to fill in the figure, covering much of the spiral. I got out my dried alder leaves and coated them one by one in orange and red hues, then pressed them to the canvas, overlapping the impressions until the entire figure was filled. I pulled paint down from the folded legs and leaves, rooting the figure into the cosmos. I paused to consider what I’d done, knowing it wasn’t complete. Then, I dipped my brush into blue pearl, and painted a stream winding from the figure’s head, down through the body and over the roots. Finally, I painted a child leaping over the stream, filled with joy, knowing she was safe and loved.

As I painted Home, I began to process my fear, my grief, the stress from the previous year. I found myself becoming increasingly excited and ready to follow my curiosity, to see where this new knowing would take me. I exhaled, inviting ease into this transition—into the doubt, the uncertainty, the stressful moments of my day.

When I picked Shon and Seren up from the airport, there was a new lightness in Shon’s eyes. Seren regaled me with stories of their adventures playing in the snow and soaring through the air at the trampoline park. I soaked in her voice and Shon’s steady presence, feeling into the delight and rightness of having them home with me again. I exhaled as I drew them close, grounding myself in our shared love.

I didn’t know it yet, but that exhale had already made space for something new—something meant to travel.

When something you’ve been bracing for finally lifts—how do you learn to exhale?

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Filling the Creative Well

Some days, being in society is just too much. While I don’t get to pull the literal covers over my head and stay in bed—as if my kid would let that happen—I do take breaks from the noise, particularly the news.

Shon and I marked our 10^th wedding anniversary while he was going through cancer treatment. In need of a deep disconnect and renewal, we honored this milestone by unplugging and hiking into the Goat Rocks Wilderness for five days, bringing only what we could carry on our backs. There, surrounded by raw beauty, we tested our strength against the mountains, taking Seren on her burliest backpacking trip yet. We split the six-mile, all-uphill hike into two days to make it possible—Seren had just turned six, Shon was one week out from his next cancer treatment, and I was dealing with chronic pain.

At our campsite that first night, we were all exhausted. After dinner, Shon and Seren escaped the mosquitos while I tidied up our camp. The two of them cuddled up in the tent as Shon told a familiar story from his childhood about the time he went camping with his dad in Colorado and they heard a ‘bear’ scratching on the tent. His dad, in a moment of brave absurdity, took Shon’s brand-new two-inch Swiss Army knife to protect them, clutching that little knife as both of them huddled in fear for hours, certain that the ‘bear’ would tear down the tent and come after them.

Listening from outside the tent where I was washing dishes, I dissolved in helpless laughter, knowing how the story ended—not with a bear, but with a branch scratching the fabric of the tent. Shon caught my giggle bug and started laughing uncontrollably. Seren laughed too, but she also wanted to hear the rest of the story. He tried to continue telling his tale and couldn’t—every time he started, we both broke down all over again, laughing until tears streamed down our cheeks, my smile plastered across my face so manically that my cheeks hurt.

We were alone in the wilderness, society miles and miles away, laughing until we couldn’t laugh any more, soaking into the moment with gratitude.

The next day we hiked up and up, above the tree line, high into the alpine, with a new lightness in our steps. Together, we reveled in the wildflowers animated with hundreds of butterflies, some settling on our toes and tickling our fingertips. We marveled at the panoramic vistas, unmarred by human development, and grazed on wild mountain huckleberries, our fingers stained purple. Seren and I climbed rock waterfalls and huge boulders simply because we could. We moved at the pace of the land itself, letting the stresses and tensions of everyday life melt away, like the glacier near our campsite. On a calm afternoon I settled into the wilderness to write as Shon and Seren filled water at the nearby stream…

Returning to nature, especially when I carry all my things on my back—especially in the untouched wilderness, far from cars and computers and distraction—fills me in such a profound way. Everything is slow. All there is to do is immerse in the connection, the calm, the beauty. Let the world around me be my teacher. Sink deeper into place, into wonder, into my love for Seren and Shon. Drink clear glacial water and submerge my feet in its icy coldness. Lose track of days and hours and minutes. And just be.

Where do you go—or what do you do—to fill your creative well?

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The Constellation of One

This poignant and supportive dream was a sharp contrast with the dreams I experienced over the following weeks. In those dreams my deepest personal fears were actualized—dreams where I drank alcohol, somehow saying to myself I was still sober since I only had a drink every now and again. This was terrifying because I know that the only power I have when it comes to alcohol is to not take that first drink. After that, all bets are off. I awoke from these dreams, nightmares really, shaken and unsure—were these only dreams, or had I actually broken the promises I’d made to myself and lost my hard-earned sobriety?

I decided to take the dreams for the prompt they were and got back into my practices of meditation, jogging, and painting which had slipped some during the summer. I found myself at a threshold of sorts—a place where all of the pieces of the work I had done over the last nine months were swirling together. Each piece a part of a multi-dimensional puzzle, and this puzzle was under incredible strain. It felt as though everything I had built teetered on the brink of collapse. The puzzle needed just one more piece to slide into place to be whole, or it was going to explode. I worried that if the puzzle collapsed, it might unravel not just the progress I’d made, but my ability to hold onto the life I’d worked so hard to create.

Or maybe it wasn’t a puzzle at all. Maybe it was my old self, the caterpillar in me that was perfectly happy in my safe, grounded life, trying hard to stay as I was, resisting the risk of reaching for the sky, resisting the imaginal cells that were building the version of myself that can fly. The strain wasn’t about finding one missing piece—it was about letting go of the safety of the known and surrendering to the transformation already underway.

After many years of doing my own inner work, I’ve come to a place where I like who I am—I feel more comfortable in my skin today than I ever have before. I recognize my own self-worth. This allows me to go out into the world and take actions that are meaningful towards creating a hopeful future. Reaching this place was hard-won, a result of years spent peeling back layers of doubt and shame to uncover a sense of wholeness within myself.

These dreams were a warning. They were a reminder that if I am to continue living this life I love, to be of service to those around me, to be part of the solution, it is absolutely essential that I prioritize my own self-care. There is no other way for me to do it. If I don’t take care of myself, I risk losing my self-worth and self-acceptance. If I lose those two hard-won cornerstones, I cannot show up for the world, or those I love. And I definitely won’t be able to show up in the artful ways that I am being called to.

About a month earlier, my mentor asked me to make art around the personal work I was doing in relation to the cancer in Shon’s body. Her request wasn’t just about making art; it was an invitation to confront my vulnerabilities and strengths head-on and weave them into a declaration of self-acceptance. Specifically, she was guiding me towards changing my attitude and taking better care of myself. She asked me to forgive my weaknesses and accept my strength, to bring together the pieces of my spiritual self through art. Her challenge was an invitation to use art to bring clarity to the chaos I was navigating, and in doing so, to integrate the scattered pieces of myself.

While creating this piece, I made a list of my values, then collaged them into the painting, within a figure made of stars, connected to the cosmos. What emerged was a painting called The Constellation of One. It is a map of sorts—of the pieces of myself that I love, the boundaries that I strive to honor, that facilitate my connection with Self, with the Divine Mystery.

Talking to my mentor while wandering outside one evening, we explored my sobriety, drinking dreams, tools, and my family. As I reflected on the garage sale dream, I realized that the tools I had collected weren’t just symbolic—they represented the practices and boundaries I had been building all along—structures I could now lean on with renewed intention. Picking them up and using them daily was an act of self-empowerment and healing. I just needed to recognize their presence and use them.

When that piece fell into place, it was like the Universe rang a bell. My mentor and I both felt it. My body flushed with tingling energy and tears fell from my eyes as the realization hit home: I will not compromise my self-worth—the belonging I’ve found in my own skin—for any unhealthy relationship that is not serving me. I would rather be by myself than hide or diminish aspects of myself to be in relation with any person or social structure that won’t allow me to be me.

In that moment, all the tension was released from the puzzle, and it became a whole, beautiful, multi-dimensional picture of who I am.

This puzzle is my star map, my universe—the tools from the dream made visible. Having this map doesn’t mean I will no longer get lost—it means that there is a way back. And when I forget, I have a compass to guide me home, again and again.

The message came back to me—the one I’d received while painting months ago: I no longer get to be small. Finally, I understood it fully. It wasn’t just about my business or my art. It was about all of me. No more shrinking. No more hiding. No more compromising my worth to make others comfortable.

I no longer get to be small.

As I peeled off fear and scarcity, layer by layer, I felt myself expand—like the butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. And just as the butterfly’s wings create ripples in the air, this personal transformation has sent ripples through my family, my art, my community—and beyond. In embracing my own power, I’ve come to understand that this work is about so much more than myself—it’s about the collective metamorphosis we are capable of when we dare to step into our fullest selves.

Together, we sit at the brink of our societal eclosion—an emergence that, like the world around us, feels messy, uncertain, and impossible. Yet within this very chaos lies the potential for beauty and transformation beyond anything we can imagine.

We are possibility—potent as only something with the potential to become anything can be.

What would your own constellation look like—the values, boundaries, and hard-won truths that make up who you are?

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Balancing Act

In many ways Shon was easy to care for, rarely complaining about his situation. Even so, the cycle of his treatments was wearing on us. Now that he was receiving treatment in Olympia, travelling to and from treatments was an easy five-minute drive. But the addition of chemotherapy, while continuing to receive immunotherapy, was hard on Shon’s body. Every four weeks he would spend two full days at the hospital, drowsy and sleeping while the life-saving poison, coupled with large doses of antihistamine and steroids, dripped into his veins.

I’d bring him home after treatments and he would go to bed, staying there for days. When he would rouse himself to join us for a meal, he wasn’t fully there—the light gone from his normally bright eyes. He didn’t engage in conversation. He was simply existing, separate from us.

During these long days, I felt my own strength being tested. As the sole caretaker, the weight of our day-to-day life grew heavier. I juggled my roles as best I could, trying to be brave for Shon and especially Seren. Inside, I still grappled with fear and loneliness. The house felt emptier, the silence louder, and his sporadic presence a poignant reminder of the fragility of our situation.

About a week or so after each treatment, he would begin to come back to himself, and to us. We were thrilled to have him back, but there was a new tension. While he was sick and in bed, I made all the decisions for our family—Shon so out of it that he hardly noticed decisions were being made. As he came back to himself, he suddenly had opinions and wanted to be part of the decision-making. This was only natural, but this push and pull of roles added a layer of complexity to our already-strained interactions. At times, I felt relieved to share the burden; at others, I was irritable, not wanting to take the energy to remake decisions and plans with him when I knew that soon he would be out of it again and everything would fall back on me.

Navigating this ever-changing landscape was a difficult dance. Once I realized how this cycle kept playing out, the back and forth of the dance came easier—I learned to make space for him as he felt better, then stepped back in to lead when my strength was needed. This part of our journey, though wrought with challenges, was also a place where we grew together.

I was proud of how I was learning to show up for my family during this difficult journey, holding steady even under immense pressure. But the human body, like scaffolding under strain, can only hold so much.

As a mural artist, I often work from tall scaffolding. Fortunately, I am used to heights. When I was in my late teens, I worked for my dad, building houses. We did most everything from framing to finishing and “safety equipment” was not part of my dad’s vocabulary. I clearly remember my dad walking across the tops of 4-inch-wide walls on the daily, carrying heavy tools and placing rafters. He was fearless and graceful. My father’s seeming fearlessness taught me to push through my own fears, though I often wondered how he carried that weight day after day. Looking back, I think about how much strength it takes to balance on those narrow beams—just as I had to find my own balance through Shon’s cancer journey.

I remember how one day, while working with my dad, I needed to get from where I was on my ladder to another part of the open roof. Instead of climbing down and moving the ladder to the other spot, which is what I would normally do, I stepped onto the four-inch-wide wall and walked twelve feet across to the other side, so afraid I would fall, but doing it anyways.

“Look dad!” I called. “No hands!” He did look, he gave me quite a look in fact, asking what the heck I thought I was doing, much more concerned for my well-being than his own.

Sometimes, when mural painting, I need to get to high areas 30 feet or more above the ground. Working at those heights is exhausting in itself. One wrong step could mean a fall, so I must constantly have part of my attention on where my feet are. Assembling the scaffolding is fatiguing on an entirely different level. Each level we add gets shakier and so much farther from the ground. Falling would mean serious injury or death. To keep my balance and get the scaffolding secured so that I can do my work, I enter a type of forced meditation: I don’t allow myself to think of falling—or anything really—other than the next step required to put the scaffolding together. This mental focus gets the job done, and I’ve never fallen, but it wears me out in a way that is unlike any other manual labor I do.

In much the same way, the scaffolding of my life during Shon’s cancer journey grew taller and shakier with every added stressor—doctor appointments, caregiving, and the endless unknowns. Every step forward required careful calculation and an unrelenting focus to avoid a fall. Instead of a 30-minute process, I constructed that scaffolding for months on end. Throughout that time, I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, never veering left or right, focusing solely on the next immediate step. I couldn’t allow myself one misstep. If I did, I would fall, and I might not be able to get up again.

To stay sane, I kept myself rigid.

Looking straight ahead got me through but was exhausting. While physical falls from scaffolding can leave visible scars, the emotional scaffolding of holding it together for Shon left invisible ones—scars that manifested in chronic neck pain and daily headaches. I did all the things I knew to do, both self-care and physical therapy, but the pain persisted. Stress leaving its mark once again.

Where in your life are you holding more than your share—and what might it look like to find balance?

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Valuing yourself as an Artist

My family loves being outside. One of our summertime rituals is to eat our meals at the bar on the back porch. From our seats, we can look out at the garden and orchard, the playset and swallow nesting boxes that Seren and I built a few years earlier. We let our ducks free-range, and they often join us while we eat, foraging in the grass nearby.

On this picturesque summer day, Shon, Seren and I were having a casual, sun-soaked lunch. Out of the blue, Shon asked me, “Carrie, if I were to just go poof one day, what would you do? Would you sell the house? Would you get a regular job?” I took a deep breath, thinking Really? We’re having this conversation now? While eating lunch with our five-year-old?

But this was where we were. We were having conversations about life and death all the time. And so I took another deep breath and thought about it before responding. “Well, I don’t know what I would do about the house. It would be a lot to maintain on my own. As for getting a regular job, the time and resources that I am putting into growing my business right now is precisely so that I can fully support our family.”

Another piece of the puzzle slipped into place, releasing some of the pressure I felt. I suddenly understood, at an intrinsic level, the responsibility I have to my family to be present and fully show up for my work. The work I do as an artist, a change maker, a leader—I do for my child and for myself. I remembered why I do this work: to show Seren, or anyone who needs to see it—including myself—what it looks like to follow my bliss and stand up for what I believe in at the same time. I am dedicated to creating a better world for my child, a world where all children have the opportunity to thrive. I knew this. But up until that moment, I couldn’t fully grasp the responsibility that I held for my family.

Even though I had been getting paid as an artist for a long time—even though I was already seen, and saw myself, as an expert in collaborative art—I hadn’t fully embraced my own worth. It was as if I was still waiting for external validation. I realized something fundamental in that moment: This work requires me to stand firmly in my own worth. Without a foundation of self-worth, I can’t turn my offerings into a sustainable business that can support my family, and I cannot continue this important work.

While this shift felt like it happened in an instant, it was the result of many years of work, of practice, of undoing old stories and building of skills and confidence.

Shon’s cancer diagnosis had already ignited a deeper drive in me to grow my business. Just a few months after his diagnosis, I found and hired an incredible business coach. I was ready to level up and was tired of pushing through on my own. I needed someone to help me focus on what truly mattered, to hold me accountable, and to offer their expertise so I could grow faster and more effectively than I could on my own.

Specifically, I was seeking support in shaping my newest offering, the Art in Action Mentorship Program. My coach not only helped me clarify my vision and refine my offer, she helped me see myself more clearly—as a powerful Artist with a meaningful and valuable message to share. I am not just someone who makes things. Now, I understand that I am a capital ‘A’ Artist, a Change Maker—someone whose work moves people. As an Artist and Change Maker, I am shaping the world around me.

One assignment my coach gave me, about valuing myself as an Artist and a Leader, was especially useful in helping me see this. In this exercise, she asked me to write down all the things that I did over the years that had gotten me to where I was in my practice. That included everything: learning to use tools as a carpenter, my college education, the thousands of hours spent making art and facilitating community projects, the time I spent as a naturalist and learning about the environment, about social justice and leadership, the events I organized, the books I read, the podcasts I listened to, even the time I spent away from my family. Through this exercise I realized that I had already spent more than two decades building my knowledge and skills as I worked towards that place, that moment, where I could more fully step into my role as Artist.

As I added my family responsibility to that picture, it suddenly became imperative that I show up for my work with a new level of owning my power. It became clear to me that—whether I am leading a collaborative Art in Action Project for a city or organization, working with a school, or coaching other artists and change makers to bring their visions to reality—I need to get paid for what my time is worth. If I don’t, I can’t support my family, and I can’t do this work.

Asking for money is hard. I have all kinds of reasons why I shouldn’t charge what I am worth—ingrained stories about what kind of person has money and what kind doesn’t. For so long, I did not want to be the kind that does. Capitalism is killing our planet, and I often felt I was selling out to the system when I asked for money. What I’ve learned is that the more money I make from those who can afford it, the more I can give back to others who can’t.

A year and a half earlier, while painting in my studio, I’d received a message: I no longer get to be small. Finally, facing the reality of potentially supporting my family alone, I began to understand. Getting small meant hiding my worth, undercharging for my work, playing it safe. I couldn’t do that anymore.

Charging what I’m worth became a practice for respecting the value of my work. It isn’t easy, but it means I can keep showing up—for myself, for my family, for the work.

Where in your life are you still waiting for permission to claim your full worth?

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What is

It was through acceptance of my current situation, my current reality, that I was able to move into a space of joy and excitement. For those first months, I tried so hard to process Shon’s diagnosis and what it meant for our family. At the same time, I was pushing against it, aching for it to not be happening at all.

Through every challenge I face, I learn again and again—sometimes with an iota of grace, often kicking and screaming—that acceptance is integral for healing and transformation. I couldn’t possibly move into a new way of relating to Shon’s cancer journey without accepting the reality of what was. The how of acceptance is something of a mystery. For me, it was so many little pieces. It was yoga and meditation. It was jogging and walking in nature. It was painting in my studio and singing songs. It was cuddling and laughing with Seren. It was setting boundaries and sharing my fears, my need for support, and learning to receive what was so freely given. It is this practice of acceptance that allows me to show up fully for this life.

To create a future where we all thrive, I must first accept the world as it is. That means facing the stark realities of climate change, species loss, and inequities in race, gender, and wealth—even if some days, I’d rather pretend they don’t exist. I must accept the realities of our society—both our strengths and our fragility. Only by accepting these truths, instead of turning away, can I begin to heal and rebuild. This is not easy; it requires sitting through a lot of uncomfortable feelings: grief, anger, regret.

This acceptance is not about giving up or saying the world’s atrocities are acceptable—they are not. Instead, it’s about facing the truth of what is, without pretending otherwise. Because what really is, like the pristine reflection of the Salish Sea on a calm day, is almost always much more complicated and nuanced than what is revealed on its surface.

With my newfound acceptance, I continued to face the hard things and take action towards changing them. I simply decided to let go of what I couldn’t change and focus on what was in front of me—showing up for my husband, being present with my child, letting our community hold us, and turning the meaningful work I was doing—AKA my calling—into a successful business that could create positive change and support my family, no matter the outcome of Shon’s cancer journey.

When I accept reality, I am able to discern what is within my power to change, and what is not. I couldn’t change the fact that Shon had cancer. I could change how I responded to it.

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Forest of Grief, Seeds of Hope

“As I gave power to the sound of my own voice
A way broke before me I followed my choice.”
~I Be Your Water by Sweet Honey in the Rock

Even as I was finding acceptance in Shon’s cancer journey, I found myself showing up with and for my community in new ways. That fall, I took my Climate Art in Action work offline, away from buildings, and into nature for a series of Visioning and Art in the Forest workshops. There, immersed in the forest of Squaxin Park—with roots stretching deep into the earth beneath and trees towering above—we deepened our commitments to creative climate action and decolonization.

From the founding of the park by the City of Olympia in 1905 until 2022, Squaxin Park was named Priest Point Park. For many of us in the workshop, this was our first gathering in the park since the renaming. Simply entering the park and seeing the sign announcing Squaxin Park, with both the City and Squaxin Island Tribe’s logos, was healing.

Candace Penn, Tribal Member and Climate Change Ecologist of the Squaxin Island Tribe, opened the workshop with a tribal blessing and song. Writer Kathleen Byrd shared a poem she’d written several years earlier about how Priest Point Park was misnamed. Then, Candace shared her personal experience and the profound significance of the recent Un-naming and Re-naming of this incredible park, to Squaxin Park. It was an honor to hear her words. Her vulnerability was an invitation, moving others to share their own art, grief, and anger.

The tabletops were covered in paper, paint markers, and natural materials from the forest. We used these materials to make a collaborative art piece under a nearby tree and to create art on the tabletops. People returned to the artful collaboration throughout the workshop, adding and expanding this collective work.

Candace shared insights on climate grief, helping us to acknowledge and normalize its presence and offering ways to recognize it in ourselves and others. She suggested taking time in nature as one way of coping with this grief. If you are unable to be in nature, bringing something from nature inside—dried leaves, shells, or pebbles—may help you to ground.

After delving further into climate grief, and what helps move people through grief and into action, Kathleen led us in a writing exercise exploring “What Is and What If.” Participants shared parts of their writing with the group, amazing me in how our grief seemed to transform into hope and a greater commitment to action through this writing. My words flowed onto the paper, and when I shared them with the group, they poured out with force.

What is and What if…

What is and what if.

What is and what if.

What is: I am surrounded by hopeful, creative people.

What if each one of these people said Yes to the sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, persistent voice in our heads. What if each of us said a loud, deep, primal YES! to walk through our fears and into the fullest expression of who we are.

What if there was, or maybe already is, support for this. What if the Universe, represented by those we come across in our day to day lives, was waiting, arms open to hold us, to support us in ways we can’t even imagine?

What if when we say Yes, it results in another being able to say yes.

What if this is already What Is.

Then I say Yes. Yes! YES! That my Yes will make yours that much easier to say.

After sharing this writing, we all said a great, big resounding YES, our voices reverberating through the forest.

We ended the workshop by walking to the Salish Sea together, finding a pebble, and resting our thoughts and commitments to artful action within our pebble. Tossing these intentions into the sea, we watched the ripples move ever outward, choosing to believe that our actions have the power to create ripples of change in ways that we may never know or understand.

As the ground is healed
So too the people are healed
As the people heal
So too the ground heals

Sitting alone in the forest after the workshop, I felt connected, motivated, held, and activated. A thought came, unbidden: I am finding my Voice. In the next moment, self-doubt tried to rise up. If I find my voice, I will have to use it! I’d been using my voice for quite some time, but there are always new layers to these things. New growth, new depths.

I reread my writing from the workshop, recalling the power of our combined voices. Two things felt very true.

Our voices together have Power.

My voice is the only one I have the power to change.

What is true in your life right now that you've been avoiding looking at directly—and what might open if you did?

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Gaia’s Acceptance

It was around this time that I painted a culminating piece in my Sea Level Rise: The Mother’s Tears series. All the previous paintings in the series had a black background, the imagery coming out of the darkness, painted with cool blues. This one though, was warm—a sunset over a natural landscape.It was a painting of Hole in the Wall, a stunning stretch of coastline along the Pacific. Hole in the Wall was the site of my last backpacking trip with Shon and Seren, before learning he had cancer.

At the time, the trip to Hole in the Wall was simply an adventure—a return to nature. Looking back, it became a touchstone of life before cancer. Drawing from a collection of photographs from this trip and my own sketches, I began to paint Hole in the Wall not as it was, but as it revealed itself in my imagination.

The natural rock formations, with their massive arch you can walk through at low tide, became my focus. As I worked, I saw the rocks transform into the shape of a woman lying on her back, her body carved from the earth itself. This new vision merged the landscape with the feminine form, as if nature itself was reclining in a state of both vulnerability and strength.

As I worked on that painting, something was shifting inside of me—something I wanted to express with paint, something I had been trying, and not quite achieving, in each of the preceding paintings in the series. I was right on the edge of this shift but couldn’t quite figure out what to do first or how to get there. I went to Shon for advice, as I often do when artistically stuck. He and Seren were lying in the hammock in the sun. “I’m stuck,” I said, standing next to the hammock. “Should I paint the woman first? Or the background? Or should I just scrap the whole thing and start over?”

It was Seren who answered. “Mama, I think you should start with the part you know about, painting the woman. Paint the woman! And then just follow your heart!”

Of course, I thought. That’s it exactly. My heart melting at the truth in her words, I leaned down for a hug and was pulled on top of them in the hammock, laughing. “Oh, Seren, thank you,” I said, squeezing her tight. “You are so wise. I could not have gotten better advice from anyone else in the world.”

This was a perfect reminder of how wisdom so often flows through those who love us. Seren is such an incredible old soul, seeing right to the heart of things. She is, without question, the biggest gift in my life.

So that is exactly what I did. I painted the woman—then followed my heart. The result is the culmination of hours upon hours of painting, a place where success blends into mastery. The woman is reclined, made from rocks, with a round, pregnant, coastal bluff belly and her braided hair lying in the shallows. The clouds are fluffy and yummy, and the reflected water feels alive. The sun sets behind Hole in the Wall, creating an incredible glow, right through her heart. The painting is called Sea Level Rise: Gaia’s Acceptance.

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Gaia’s Acceptance was scheduled to be part of a collaborative art festival on the Oregon coast that summer. The festival, organized by artist John Teply, featured John’s one-hundred-year project titled For the Seventh Generation. In John’s words: “Imagine 1,320 paintings by 1,320 artists to go with the 1,320 miles of the Washington, Oregon and California coasts. These paintings, each four feet in length, when put together end to end, and in geographic order, offer the viewer an opportunity to walk the Western coast.”

That summer, Seren and I planned a road trip to Oregon, just the two of us, for the festival. Not only was I showing Gaia’s Acceptance, I was also scheduled to give a talk on the Power of Collaborative Art. By then, I’d been speaking on stage for years, but this felt different—more personal, more vulnerable.

I was nervous about traveling alone with Seren for work. What if she needed me when I was in the middle of my talk? How would I keep track of her and make sure she was safe? I know single parents must do this all the time, but it was a new revelation for me. And I didn’t know if Shon would recover from the cancer. Maybe our future would end up being just Seren and me. Even though I didn’t want to think about it, it was a possibility I couldn’t ignore.

When I meditated on how it would work if I were a single mom, I thought of how Seren has always been part of my artwork, helping me paint murals or playing in the studio while I work. This time, I was speaking on stage, but there was no reason she couldn’t be part of that too. As I developed my talk for the event, I remembered the poems she’d written and shared during the Climate Art event we hosted earlier that spring. I asked her if she’d like to be part of my talk; would she like to share a poem about the ocean on stage? She liked the idea and began thinking about an ocean poem.

As I began planning our trip, I reached out to my friend Naomi in Oregon, asking if we could stay with them. She gave an emphatic Yes! Our families had been friends for years and Naomi and I were pregnant together—Naomi with her second child while I was pregnant with Seren. They’d moved to Oregon a few years earlier. Being far away and not on social media, their family didn’t yet know about the sharp turn our lives had taken. When I told her about Shon’s cancer diagnosis and treatment, I shared that we’d be coming in raw—that I was simultaneously leaving Shon home alone during his cancer treatment for the first time and sharing a very vulnerable talk at the Seventh Generation Mural Festival. I really had no idea what emotional state I would be in. There was a good chance both Seren and I would need extra support. She responded with such empathy and compassion, welcoming us with open arms and the willingness to hold us in whatever ways we needed.

During our trip, Naomi and I connected deeply at their home in Corvallis, sharing hard and beautiful aspects of our lives, as our kids jumped on the trampoline or played in the nearby river. On the day of the festival, the four of us piled into our car and made the hour-long drive to Lincoln City. I’d practiced my talk repeatedly before leaving for Oregon and felt confident. Even so, there were butterflies in my stomach. I gave them the recognition they deserved—a recognition of the Universe being with me—welcomed them in and thanked them. I turned the music up loud and sang “Into the Wild,” and “We Rise,” feeling these songs as the call to action they are. Later, on the beach, the kids played in the waves and built sandcastles, while I sang to the ocean, finding myself calm, willing, and ready.

When I stepped onto that stage, a real stage for the first time since before the pandemic, with a huge screen behind me showing images of my work, my mouth went dry. I paused, taking a drink of water and then a deep breath. Once I began, everything flowed. I felt a deep connection with the audience, even receiving a standing ovation. As my talk ended, I shared Seren’s wisdom in helping me paint Gaia’s Acceptance, then invited her onstage. Seren came up and recited her poem:

I love the grass
And I love the trees
And I love the oceans
And I love the seas

It was short and sweet, and the audience loved it. Even though she was only on stage for a couple of minutes, she was part of it. We were a team. This felt so important during that uncertain time in our lives.

One unexpected outcome of the festival was John telling me that my painting was getting a lot of attention. Another artist said it was the favorite of the event. Considering the number of paintings in the festival, this was quite an honor. While their words fed my ego, the more important outcome was accomplishing through painting a similar sense of unfolding, of layers that are not immediately visible, as I had achieved with The Butterfly Effect.

I wondered what else would come out of this trip. Would it ripple out into the world in untold ways? Would it result in tangible outcomes for my work, for my family? What came to me was the sensation of a strong connection to the Great Mystery, to the All that Is—a curiosity, a wondering, a loosening.

It was hard to leave Shon, but it was so good for Seren and me to take a break from his treatments, to connect with friends and nature and art, with each other and ourselves. Before leaving, I made sure Shon was set with food, rides, medications, and people checking in on him. He had space to let the side effects from the treatment move through his body in peace. Mostly he just wanted to sleep. And Seren and I got a much-needed break.

What part of your life is asking you to follow your heart—even if you don’t yet know the outcome?

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Medicine

When we met with Shon’s oncologist, Hootie, after learning that the first treatment didn’t work, he recommended a much more intense regimen—six months of chemotherapy and immunotherapy administered over two days, every four weeks at the hospital.

The immunotherapy was already proving to be hard on Shon’s body, and the trips to Seattle were grueling. On treatment days, we had to be there early in the morning, often leaving Olympia by 4 a.m., and staying at the hospital in Seattle late into the night, with Shon completely out of it due to the high doses of antihistamine he needed for his body to accept the immunotherapy. That meant having someone stay with Seren that entire time. Without family nearby, we had to rely on our chosen family—our Fam-Oly—to support us. Asking for and receiving that support was hard—and resulted in much tighter bonds within our community.

I was grateful for the support, but there was another layer to my fear of losing Shon—one that felt selfish to name. I’d been almost feverishly investing in my art business for months, knowing I might become the sole provider for our family. Each workshop I gave, each project I completed was building the foundation that might have to hold all three of us.

If I failed, I’d have to get a “real job” and give up my art career—give up all I’d worked for.

Before Shon began his first round of treatments, we had asked if Hootie could remain Shon’s primary oncologist, but that Shon could receive the treatment in Olympia. Hootie rejected this. We knew Shon was getting the best care possible by working with the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, so we didn’t argue. But after experiencing the grueling, multi-hour commute himself, Hootie reconsidered and agreed that Shon should do the new treatment in Olympia. We would get an Olympia oncologist to administer the treatment and Hootie would continue to oversee Shon’s treatment.

It wasn’t good news, but we were relieved to be done with the commute and committed to seeing his treatment through.

Back in the car, Shon driving home, I needed to check out. Just for a minute. I opened my email, scrolling without really seeing, then stopped. A few months earlier I’d offered a Climate Action through Art workshop online. When I shared it on a climate website, the response was overwhelming—way more people tried to sign up than I had space for. I’d written to the organization, asking if they would send me the contact information for everyone who’d tried to sign up, certain that they would say no.

Opening their reply, I blinked in shock. Not only did they say yes, they sent me a document with the contact info for over 2,000 people interested in my work.

I looked over at Shon’s profile as he drove. He looked calm, steady. I looked down at the email again, my heart beating faster. It felt like a sign, like the Universe was holding us, reminding me that even in the midst of this cancer battle, there was abundance to be had.

That night, Seren fell asleep in my arms as we cuddled in her bed. I carefully disentangled myself from her, then smoothed back her hair. I thought about the email—2,000 contacts for people who’d signed up for my workshop. They lived all around the world. Most were strangers. I thought about the web I’d been building since The Plastic Whale Project, of the extra work I’d put into my business this year. I kissed Seren’s forehead, just like every other night.

We had a long road in front of us, and I didn’t know where it would lead. But in that moment, I let myself believe it might be okay.

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Running Towards

One day in early June, while out for a jog, something shifted. For so many months, I ran to escape—I ran for pure survival, desperately trying to move through the fear of losing Shon, and what that might mean for our family. I would imagine the congealed emotions flowing out of my brainstem, my brain processing each thought so that I could release them as I ran.

But on this day…On this day, it was different. I left my house and hit the trail, deciding to cross over the bridge and jog around the nearby school. As I jogged, I felt a new opening inside of me—an opening in the center that called me forwards. I felt liberated. Excited. And ready for whatever was next in my life. For the first time since Shon’s diagnosis, I felt a glimmer of hope—something to reach for beyond the daily weight of worry. I had a vision of something inspiring to work towards, something that pulled me out of that constant fear and planted me deep inside of hope and action.

What I was moving towards was a piece of my growth as an artist and change maker. It was a deeper understanding of my role in the wider world. It was a remembering of my part in the tapestry of life and a growing understanding that by fulfilling this role, I would also be of service to my family.

I felt clarity, a knowing of what I am here to do: Create art, and cultivate space for others to engage with art, to co-create experiences that open people to new possibilities, inspiring them into action.

When I got home and had lunch with my family, I told Shon that for the first time in months, I felt like I was running towards something instead of away. He gave me an odd look, and I wondered what was going on for him, but I let it drop since Seren was there.

That evening, I asked him what came up for him when I shared about running towards something instead of away. He said that he had no idea that I’d been jogging to run away and to process. He just saw it as running: “You know, for cardio and stuff.” I couldn’t help but laugh, because for me, it wasn’t just cardio; it was processing, healing, and survival.

When life tightens its grip, what pulls you forward instead of back?

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Six months into Shon’s journey with cancer, we received the news that not only did the first round of treatment not work, but that the mass in Shon’s lungs had grown. As I often do when upset, I found refuge in nature. I remember with crystal clarity leaving my house, walking down the driveway, and crossing the street, thinking about how damned hard the past six months had been.

As I stepped off the road and onto the path, I thought, Why Shon? Why us? Why ME? As I took my next step, time slowed, and my vision condensed. I was about to step onto thin ice over a deep, dark, frozen lake—if I took one more step into Why me, I would fall through the ice and drown in the frigid darkness—a frozen lake of my own internal demise, a place of darkness and self-pity. A place where the world is stacked against me. Instead, I called on the skills I’d built through meditation. I let go of the thought Why me, and chose to Trust.

I don’t get to know why these things happen. Why me? Really, why not me? Why anyone, for that matter. Those questions are not for me to brood on. If I do, I get stuck in the swirling abyss of self-pity. And when I’m in self-pity, I am no good to anyone, least of all myself.

What I did know was that the previous six months had been excruciatingly hard. And that this cancer journey was only just beginning. I couldn’t live my life and fully show up for my family while mired in fear. I continued walking along the trail, one foot in front of the other, feeling a sense of relief and power: I’d recognized and avoided the trap that is self-pity.

Within twenty steps, I heard a voice in my head, my voice, asking, “What if it didn’t have to be so hard?”

I let those words sink in, words that seemed to come out of nowhere and everywhere. What would it be like, I wondered, if Shon could have cancer, we could still be in a pandemic, our climate could still be spiraling out of control, and a million other things that make me want to scream could still be happening, and it didn’t have to be so hard?

In that moment I made a choice. I chose to Trust that we were right where we needed to be, and that no matter what, I was going to be okay.

My journey to Trust was long, winding, and ultimately one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself and the world around me. It is a crucial practice that I must return to again and again, as it is all too easy for me to fall into self-doubt.

Years ago, I met with a spiritual advisor of sorts who saw my potential and what was getting in the way. I distinctly remember her saying, “You’re not ready to Trust.” And she was right, I wasn’t—I was still trapped in scarcity and fear.

As I continued to work on my own spiritual, emotional, and mental growth, I got curious about Trusting. What did that even mean? My meditation practice includes prayers that I’ve created over time—prayers not bound to any religion, instead coming from my heart. After getting curious about Trusting, my prayers started to sound something like: Please help me to Trust. There I stayed for a long time, wanting, but not quite able to Trust.

When I asked for help Trusting, I could feel myself on the edge of something life altering. I began to wonder what it would be like if I shifted my prayer from “Help me to Trust” to “I Trust.” This two-word shift felt dangerous and precarious, as though I stood on the very edge of a crumbling cliff, unsure whether to step forward or pull back. I was afraid that I couldn’t really do it. That saying “I Trust” wouldn’t be authentic or true.

One day I got brave. That morning, sitting in meditation, I called up my courage and made a choice. In my prayer I said, I Trust you to work in my life and the lives of those I love today.

The shift that happened inside was infinitesimal…and infinite.

Life began to flow in a new way. Things that seemed hard before, suddenly came easier. My work took on a new richness, as did my relationships. Opportunities seemed to be everywhere, and my business grew.

From then on, each day I chose to Trust in my concept of a higher power—what I think of as the Universe, the One Song, the All That is, the Great Mystery, the Divine Wow—and in myself. I’ve come to believe that I am in collaboration with the Universe.

At the same time, life just kept right on life-ing. Hard stuff still happened. Projects fell through. We entered a global pandemic. I had difficulty with a family member. The difference was that I now had an expanded capacity to cope with whatever came my way.

When Shon got cancer, my Trust faltered and fear took over. When I made the choice to Trust once again, six months into Shon’s cancer journey, life did get easier. All I did was open myself to the possibility—the possibility that maybe, just maybe, life didn’t have to be so hard. And it wasn’t. I accepted what was and found ease. I was still worried about Shon and it still sucked to witness the treatments ravage his body. But instead of future tripping on what might happen, I shifted my focus to what we had right then.

Shon was receiving the best care possible. We had access to an incredible team of doctors. We had excellent health insurance and weren’t going to go into debt to treat the cancer. We had money coming in from our work. We had a home we loved, a supportive community, and a child who brought light and joy to the smallest of moments.

The time the three of us spent together felt so precious. Simple moments like gathering bigleaf maple leaves, bigger than our heads, golden with fall color, while ambling along amidst the falling leaves, were joyous and sweet. I reveled in the nights when Shon’s body wasn’t shaking with fever and chills, wrapping myself around him, cocooning his warm body with mine. I chose again and again to be present with what was—to let go of my need to control what I couldn’t.

A song by Gone Gone Beyond was my mantra during this time. I played it over and over again, singing along with all my heart, trying to absorb the chorus, “It’s out of my control, so I’m gonna coast, for a little while.”

Yes, he had cancer. But that wasn’t the whole story, and I was no longer going to let the closeness of his mortality stop me from loving the life we had. When I accepted the reality of the situation, everything shifted. And it wasn’t so hard.

In that one moment of acceptance and Trust, I began to transform into a new version of myself. Or maybe I uncovered an aspect of Self that always was. I connected to Spirit and let go. I accepted what was. What I got in return was freedom—freedom to move through that moment with a modicum of ease.

And so I kept walking, each step landing on solid ground.

Where in your life might things soften if you released the “Why me?” and chose Trust instead?

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Grief in Color

Music has always been a core component of my experience—of my identity. I remember lying in bed as a child, Guns and Roses flowing through the floor vent from my older sister’s room as she played “Sweet Child O’ Mine” over and over again. My brother listened to death metal, giving me my first recording of DR—full of inappropriate lyrics I can still recite by heart. In high school, in the late ‘90s, in Bismarck, North Dakota, a friend introduced me to the music coming out of Olympia, Washington. Through the Riot Grrrl movement, I discovered music that changed my life: Heavens to Betsy, Sleater Kinney, Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, and so many others. They fueled my early transformation, exploring feminism, racism, and social change through righteous anger.

In sobriety, I had to let go of much of my righteous anger—as a recovering alcoholic, stewing in anger, righteous or not, is a dangerous place for me to be.

Now though, I was deep in grief. One of the places I took this grief was to my studio, where I scheduled three evenings a week to paint, after Seren went to bed.

This studio time looked different than it ever had before. In recent years, most of my paintings were uplifting, transformative in the realm of claiming and reclaiming the power of the divine feminine. It had been a long time since I painted myself ripping my heart open with the pain of vulnerability.

Over the previous couple of years, I discovered so much amazing music—music that was transformative and positive, that I could groove to while I painted. I began incorporating music into my studio time in an entirely new way. In each session I dropped into my body through drumming and singing. I sang a few songs ritualistically, including “Into the Wild” by Shylah Ray Sunshine and “We Rise” by Batya Levine. They were anthems to claim my power, to transform our world. They were words I needed to hear, and more so, words I needed to say.

To this day, “Into the Wild” is a favorite song for me and Seren to sing together. I would drum. I would sing. After a while, I would paint. In my grief, my entire color palette shifted—from warm to cool, from light to dark.

The new painting series I was working on came to me while on a run. I literally ran back to my studio, images of the earth crying, and the seas rising flickering through me. My pencil flew across the paper as I started to sketch. The Universe gifted me a creative outlet to cope with my fear and grief. The series is called Sea Level Rise: The Mother’s Tears. In it, a woman—the Earth, the Mountains, the Sea, the Mother—lies weeping on the horizon. Her tears enter the sea, causing it to rise and drown her sorrows. This is her grief, her fear, her healing, her love. The earth is on fire, and she drowns the flames in her tears.

When working on these paintings, alone in my studio at night, I somehow transcended the fear and overwhelm that were my constant those days. I was lifted out of my worries. At the same time, the creative process allowed me to move through emotions brought on not only by the crisis my family was facing, but the global climate crisis.

The grief I was painting didn’t belong to me alone. It was of fire, of floods—of a world unraveling before my eyes. The act of painting kept me present, moving me forward one brushstroke at a time.

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Climate Grief

As I painted my grief at home, I was still working with the Thurston Climate Action Team. TCAT was where the Chrysalis Project began, and I was their Lead Artist and Community Engagement Expert—often working with young people, supporting their climate clubs and actions.

The Thurston Youth Climate Coalition reached out that spring, asking for support for their upcoming protest. They needed paint and brushes to make signs, something I could easily provide. I’d worked with most of them before, a few during the Chrysalis Project. I was continually impressed with the creative actions they were taking for the climate—actions with specific and doable steps for our community and local governments.

After dropping off the art supplies, I interviewed the students about their work as climate activists to help promote their upcoming action. I’ll never forget our conversation. One activist shared that adults often told her how much she inspired them. Her response: “We aren’t doing this to be cute or inspiring. We are doing it because we don’t feel we have any other options. We are genuinely terrified about this.”

Another talked about the mental health crisis that climate change was causing.[1] “When I learned about the climate crisis, I was suicidal for months. Having community and taking action together is the best way to come to terms with the climate crisis. To acknowledge the problem and do something about it.” What she was describing—climate grief—was heartbreakingly familiar.[2] I’d heard versions of it from other young people, too.

Still another showed how much they already knew about the problem. “Getting involved in climate action can get you out of your bubble. Then you’re exposed to the fact that there are solutions that we can implement now. We have the technology. We have the money. What we lack is the political will. We are here to push our elected officials to have that courage.”

Creating art collaboratively is one of the biggest gifts the universe has given me. I love facilitating groups through the creative process, from design conception to art installation. But what keeps me coming back is the transformation. It’s the aha moment. The light in someone’s eyes when they get it. Seeing others take that light into their own hands and share it is extraordinary. I couldn’t help but be inspired by those students, even knowing that’s not what they wanted—all they needed from me was some paint. They had the rest of it. My heart warmed with pride seeing them use creativity in a way that supported their own well-being while showing the rest of us what courage and community looks like.

Stepping into my studio to paint Sea Level Rise: The Mother’s Tears was a much more solitary experience—one that required an entirely different type of vulnerability. I was trying to do something with paint that I hadn’t done before, and it took many attempts before I painted the one painting where my vision fully came to life. I kept returning again and again to following my curiosity.

What if I put this brush stroke here? How about if I add leaf stamps in this way? This work was incredibly personal, and my old fears would sometimes creep in. It’s just me after all, with my paints, brushes, and canvases. And music, of course, always music. Sometimes, though, like when I received the ideas for this painting series, I know I’m not alone, and that is pure magic.

[1] According to the American Psychological Association, two-thirds of young people today are experiencing climate grief. https://www.apa.org/monitor/2021/03/ce-climate-change

[2] Climate grief is the emotional response to the loss and anticipated loss of ecosystems, cultural practices, identities, and landscapes due to environmental changes and degradation. https://www.climateandmind.org/what-is-climate-grief

Where do you put your grief—so it can move, instead of staying trapped?

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Asking for Help

I may be an alcoholic, but even more so, I am afraid of vulnerability. Fortunately, I had spent the previous eight years in practice. In that time, I learned that the only way for me to heal—the only way I could overcome the shame that I carried with me—was to bring the shame into the light and share it with others who would listen and understand without judgment. Shame can only survive in the dark. I learned that I need other people. I learned how to ask for help.

Shon’s cancer was a new kind of experience—one I felt completely unprepared for. I was incredibly afraid of losing him, of Seren losing him. I knew that I needed to show up for both of them during this time. And I couldn’t show up for either of them if I didn’t first show up for myself.

Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I reached out for help. I asked for help from my closest friends first. They held me with such tenderness. With such love. It gave me the courage to share with others what was happening in our lives. I knew there were countless people who would want to know what Shon was going through. Though I had stopped scrolling through social media a few years earlier as a self-care practice, social media seemed the easiest way to reach many of the people who cared about us. When I did share the news of his cancer, we received a massive outpouring of love.

Reading those responses, their messages of love and support, broke me open, leaving me raw and exposed. This was a new level of vulnerability. A new expansion of allowing myself to be loved. I read the notes until I felt I might burst, then put my phone down and walked into the woods. The movement of my body, breath flowing in and out, the cold air on my skin brought me back to myself. We were so loved. It was a lot.

People were incredibly generous throughout our cancer journey. They gave childcare, rides to Seattle, time, advice, money, food, counseling. They looked after our ducks. They repaired our water lines. They wore masks. They meditated, checked in, and shared their stories.

A dear friend of mine who owns True Self Yoga in town gifted Shon and me year-long memberships—worth several thousand dollars. I felt my chest tighten at this generosity. Like it was too much. Like we weren’t worth it. Gratitude and shame braided together, hard to separate.

Opening myself to receive this support was hard. Where I once would have shut this out emotionally, I allowed the love to come in, right to the center of my being. It was there, with my heart laid open in new and very uncomfortable ways, that I experienced a transformation. By asking for help, sharing the hard stuff while respecting the emotional boundaries and capacities of others, and allowing their generosity in, I discovered a new level of my own self-worth.

Learning to receive didn’t make the fear go away—it did mean I didn’t have to carry it alone.

Where might you let yourself be supported right now?

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Falling Apart

I was at the edge. I didn’t know what was next. On the surface everything looked okay. Inside I could feel myself screaming. I needed to escape, to run away, to feel something other than fear.

Of course, I did. As I began to come back together over the days and weeks and months ahead, I was remade. Grieving was a necessary step towards accepting the reality of what was, so that I could show up with my full self. That day I took a step towards acceptance of what was. And let go of what I wished was.

I grieved. I found a safe space and allowed myself to become undone.

This is what it feels like to melt down inside of a chrysalis. This coming undone, where you don’t know if you are dying or being remade. This is part of the magic. You cannot become a butterfly without this complete undoing. You cannot be remade without first being unmade. You cannot be found, unless first you are lost.

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Running Away

This is how I made it through the day: I awoke, cared for my child, practiced yoga, meditated, went to work, prayed, walked or jogged in nature, spent time with Seren, reached out to a friend or mentor, connected with Shon through shared foot rubs and conversation on the couch, ate ice cream, went to bed, woke up and did it all over again.

There was this huge, overwhelming part of myself that simply wanted to run away. Run from the fear, from the uncertainty, from the pain. And so I ran. I ran through the woods near my home. As I ran, I looked straight ahead. I imagined myself running far, far away. And I imagined myself processing this new reality with every single step.

This was my biggest fear: Shon would die. I would get drunk. Seren would lose both parents.

Shon was the one who was always supposed to be there, no matter what. He was my failsafe—the one who made me feel okay about having a child, even though I am an alcoholic. I knew that even if I drank, she would have him. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I had no plans on drinking, but no matter how much time I have, I am always one drink away from getting drunk. I know people with 20+ years of sobriety, who have gone out and gotten drunk, sliding right back into active alcoholism, losing all they worked for to a disease that doesn’t give a damn who it takes down. What if he died? What if he died and I got drunk? Who would take care of Seren? I was terrified that we would both leave her now that Shon had cancer.

I could not get drunk. And so I ran.

At my core, I knew drinking was not an option. No matter how overwhelming things became, I had to remain sober—for Seren, for Shon, for myself. Sobriety had saved my life, but the fear and stress didn’t magically disappear just because I made the decision to stay sober. It lingered in my body, begging for release.

The woods became my sanctuary. I ran through the trees, breathing in the crisp air, trying to ground myself in the present moment. The pounding of my feet on the earth gave rhythm to my scattered thoughts. With each step, I felt myself processing the new reality, letting the shock absorb into the ground below me. The trail became a lifeline, a place where I could fall apart and still move forward, one step at a time.

When I ran, I imagined every stride was bringing me closer to peace, to clarity, to some semblance of control. I couldn’t control Shon’s diagnosis, but I could control whether or not I took a drink. I wouldn’t run away. But I could pretend, just for a bit, that I was leaving my life behind.

It was escape. It was how I came back to myself.

With each mile, while I just wanted to run away, I was also running toward my recovery, my strength, my commitment to Seren and Shon. I was running towards being the mother and partner they needed me to be, even in the face of uncertainty, even if I couldn’t see it at the time.

I ran. I meditated. I spent time in nature each day. I reached out to others walking a similar path of recovery. And I got real present with what recovery was for me.

When have you needed to fall apart in order to begin again?

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“Carrie, when I tell you something is wrong with my body, I need you to believe me.”

We were driving south towards Oregon, Seren in the back. Shon had been telling me about pain in his joints for several months. For several months I brushed those concerns off as exaggerations.

No matter how much I grow and learn, I still find myself pulled into old familial stories. This was a story called “Suck it up and get to work.” It’s another version of, “We don’t get sick.” These stories, passed down in my family, were rooted in survival for my ancestors and are very difficult to shake.

Shon and I had grown distant over the past year. Seren, thriving in outdoor preschool, was the focal point of our hearts. Though Shon was always an active, loving parent, I was still her primary caregiver, while working part-time for TCAT and keeping several collaborative art projects in motion at once. Shon was working at Evergreen, now as the supervisor of both grounds and construction, with a project list a mile and a half long.

The pandemic was wearing on us, and even with our varied workdays, our interactions had become transactional: Who’s getting groceries, cooking dinner, fixing what’s broken, making sure the laundry gets done, doing all the little things that needed doing to keep our home and family going. Each day was the same, right up until bedtime when he’d lie in bed on his phone and I’d read a book by the fire, then to sleep, only to get up and do it all over again. This trip to meet friends in southern Oregon was a lovely respite from the monotony.

There was something about the way Shon spoke that made me pay attention. I saw in that moment how I was disregarding his concerns about the pain in his body. I felt embarrassed by my disregard and honored that he was willing to be so vulnerable. I knew it wasn’t easy for him.

I owned up to brushing off his concerns and promised I would listen in the future. I started to pay attention. And just in time.

On that trip, Shon started changing his diet to reduce the inflammation in his body. Even though our Naturopath couldn’t hear anything abnormal, Shon noticed a slight wheeze in his lungs when he laid down in bed at night and insisted that our Naturopath refer him for an x-ray.

That x-ray marked the beginning of a long and terrifying journey. It showed abnormalities in his lungs and led to a CT scan. We were sent to Seattle to see a pulmonologist and rheumatologist.

The pulmonologist didn’t receive the results of the CT scan before our visit and couldn’t hear anything in Shon’s lungs either. He sent us on our way with no news, but as we were eating lunch before heading home, Shon’s phone rang. It was the pulmonologist. He’d received the scan and was so concerned by what he saw that he insisted Shon come back to the hospital for another scan that very day.

The scans revealed a mass about the size of a large orange in his right lung. This led to a bronchoscopy, and eventually, the phone call.

He had cancer. In his lungs. In the middle of a pandemic that attacked the lungs.

Even though we knew it was coming, hearing the word “cancer” felt like a death sentence. My whole body froze. The question mark was replaced with a period. An ending. But instead of lessening our uncertainty, it rose to a fever pitch because we didn’t know what came next.

Shon took to the Internet to learn about lung cancer. When he told me what he found, I could sense the panic radiating from him. He read that he had less than five years to live. Less than five years to watch our daughter grow, to do all the things he hadn’t yet done. As he shared this with me, he broke down—racking sobs shaking his whole body—letting the fear out. I watched him crumble and fear began to grip me too. What if this really was the end? But now was not the time for me to fall apart. I held him, stroking his hair. I loved him. I told him I was with him. All I could do was stay present, hold space, and somehow stay strong when everything felt so damned fragile.

After dropping Seren at preschool the next morning, I came home to an empty house for the first time since the diagnosis. I walked inside and all the fear that I’d set aside the night before boiled up to the surface, overwhelming me, crashing through me in a riptide that pulled me to my knees. I called a friend as I sobbed on the kitchen floor, terrified, feeling like I was coming undone. I hadn’t even realized how afraid I was until I made that call and said the words.

Eventually, we were able to meet with an oncologist. We were warned that many oncologists aren’t very personable or positive, instead tending to focus heavily on statistics. Shon’s oncologist, who said to call him Hootie, was not that way at all. Hootie was always very positive and danced around the statistics. In fact, he never gave us a single statistic, even when we asked. We learned from Hootie that Shon didn’t have typical lung cancer, but a type of lymphoma that happened to be in his lungs. The fact that it was in his lungs was rare, but it wasn’t the death sentence Shon thought it was. Instead, it was a slow-growing cancer that tended to respond to treatment. We came up with a plan, putting off the start of treatment for a couple of months due to the emergence of a new Covid strain, then began the treatment regimen in January of 2022.

Those first few months were…hard is an understatement. We were scared and felt isolated. Many of our friends and community had started to gather again, but we felt like we were thrown right back into the beginning of the pandemic—surrounded with so much uncertainty and unable to gather for fear that Shon would get sick. If he were to get an infection in his lungs, that infection would be all too likely to kill him.

What has your body—or someone you love—been trying to tell you?

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I No Longer Get to Be Small

After The Chrysalis Project: Transforming Together I took the concept into my studio, beginning a new painting series: The Chrysalis Series. Within this series, I discovered a place of ease within my studio painting. Finally, I was released from the incapacitating fear I once felt when making my own art. The relief of this release left me joyous, light, and excited—when I wasn’t in my studio, I couldn’t wait to get back and paint more.

It was while working on this series, simply following my curiosity from one brushstroke to the next, listening to incredible live music, that I received a message that I can only describe as flowing through me from the One Song. Every cell in my body felt like living energy as this message resonated through my entire being.

I no longer get to be small.

Time seemed to stop. In that single instant of the Infinite Now, I was changed. It was clear that something was holding me back, something that I needed to move through. I knew I needed to expand beyond my limiting beliefs, but I didn’t know how—I didn’t even know what was holding me back. What did this message mean, that I ‘no longer got to be small’? Did it mean I was supposed to take my work to a new level? Grow it into something huge? Or did it signify I needed to grow on the inside? To reach deeper into my own authenticity?

I know it looks like I’ve done some big things, and I have. My work is nothing if not big. And the impact it has had on my personal growth and the world around me is staggering. But I still have my own struggles. For years, I carried two fears that loomed over everything I did: the fear of truly being seen—of stepping into the spotlight and owning my voice—and the fear of giving away what I do. I worried that if I shared my process or ideas, someone else might take them and make them their own, leaving me diminished or invisible. These fears, rooted in a sense of scarcity and vulnerability, were holding me back, keeping me small when I knew I was meant to expand.

Spiritual transformation can happen in an instant; it can take time for our emotional, mental, and physical selves to catch up.

In this case, it took a year and a half until my emotions could fully process that message. It was a painful time, filled with discomfort. It took going through a global pandemic, showing up for my inner work, and my husband getting cancer before I found myself in full alignment with that message.

I no longer get to be small.

What part of you is ready to grow beyond the limits you carry?

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Art as a Tool for Community-wide Change

One week before we went into lock-down for the Covid-19 pandemic, I began working for the Thurston Climate Action Team (TCAT). I took the job as a way to connect more deeply with climate action work in my local community. Notably, I was not hired as an artist—I was hired for my organizational skills. We even talked about this in my interview, since we’d had some artful collaborations in the past. I assured TCAT that I could do the job without turning it all into a big art project. How wrong I was.

When we went into lock-down, TCAT, along with so many others, scrambled to re-envision all our work and move it online. We decided to begin with a series of online workshops, each focused on a different climate topic. I hesitantly offered to do a workshop on the Power of Collaborative Art, keeping in mind that we all knew that art was not what I’d been hired to do. They agreed and so I began planning the workshop.

As often happens, this single workshop began to grow and evolve in my mind, transforming into something much larger. It took on a life of its own as it morphed into a full-scale virtual Art in Action Campaign.

At the time, our local jurisdictions of Thurston County, Olympia, Tumwater, and Lacey were in the process of writing a climate mitigation plan. TCAT was leading the public effort to ensure it was a strong plan that would meet steep targets.

I knew that the Art in Action Campaign spinning in my head and heart had the potential to pull the words of the plan off the page—where plans often get stuck—and translate them into action. There I was, with this fantastic idea for how to make our work impactful, and it was by doing the exact thing I said I wouldn’t do in my interview. Knowing rejection might be what I’d get, I pitched my idea to my team at TCAT, sweaty hands and all. And they said yes. They agreed that this Art in Action Campaign was our best option to continue our important work and make an impact during this challenging time.

As I’ve grown my collaborative art practice, it has become increasingly important for me to bring stakeholders into the design process. In addition to getting feedback from my team, I scheduled sessions with educators and youth climate activists. Together, we co-created what became The Chrysalis Project: Transforming Together.

During the Art in Action Campaign, I held online workshops with over 200 youth and adults. In these workshops, we explored the power of art to create change. We examined the critical moment we were in—a triple crisis consisting of a global pandemic, a racial reckoning, and the climate crisis. We used the chrysalis—a place of transformation where a caterpillar becomes a butterfly—as a metaphor to understand the personal and societal changes we were undergoing during this pivotal time.

Together we created visions of what we wanted to be when we emerged from our individual and societal chrysalides.

When I held workshops for The Chrysalis Project, my body came alive with emotion—my throat tight and tears welled in my eyes, threatening to fall as I shared my vision. It was through this project that I began to share my belief that we really could have a different world—a world where we ALL have a chance to thrive. Saying this out loud was a giant leap into the unknown.

How dare I, with all my imperfections and uncertainties, claim that things could be different—that they could be better? How dare I profess to have, if not a plan for getting there, at least a piece of the puzzle, and a willingness to create a space for the vision to unfold?

As I stood there in front of the camera, vulnerable and trembling, I realized that daring to believe in this vision wasn’t just about me—it was about inviting others into a collective act of courage. Through collaborative art and leadership, I was creating a space where people dared to see themselves as part of something larger, as integral pieces in building this world we all longed for.

Those workshops were not only vulnerable for me. Every person who envisioned themselves within a chrysalis, dissolving into imaginal cells, and reshaping into something new. Every person who penned a letter, capturing their presence and emotions during that intense time. Every person who channeled their art to forge a vision of a future where we all could flourish. Every single one of them stepped into an act of bravery.

They allowed themselves to feel what they were feeling, to connect with others in those feelings. They expressed themselves creatively and dared to dream of a different world. They stood in their power and demanded that our elected leaders do their damned jobs and lead.

Using items from their homes, participants painted, wrote, and collaged visions of vibrant futures—not just of survival, but of thriving communities and ecosystems. They then flipped their artwork over and wrote letters to local elected officials on the back of their creations. In these letters, participants shared where they were and how they were feeling during those early days of the pandemic. They shared the actions they were already taking and pledged to deepen their commitment to climate justice.

Participants then asked, and in some cases demanded, local officials take bold climate action—to pass and implement a robust, transformative Thurston Climate Mitigation Plan. They took their letters, with the artwork on one side, folded them, put them in envelopes, addressed them, and mailed them to their city mayors, council members, and county commissioners in all four of our local jurisdictions. These were powerful calls to action with an undeniable impact on our elected officials.

In an early workshop, one adult participant photographed and emailed his letter and drawing to his commissioner. The response he received was moving: “What a very kind and uplifting note! Thank you. I’m going to print this butterfly (did you draw it?), frame it and refer to it on camera and display it in my office & on FB. Yes, climate action needs to progress along. I will do my part.”

This was an incredible response from a conservative county commissioner, underscoring the transformative power of the campaign. His commitment was the first of many potent responses from elected officials.

The Thurston Climate Mitigation Plan was finalized that fall. It was, and is, a very ambitious plan, aiming to reduce emissions 45% below 2015 levels by the year 2030, and 85% below 2015 levels by 2050. For elected officials in some jurisdictions, voting to approve this plan could have jeopardized their political careers, so it was not an easy sell. TCAT continued to advocate for passing the plan, rallying behind the ideas and visions that came from The Chrysalis Project.

In February of 2021, the Thurston County Commissioners met to vote on whether or not to pass and implement the plan. When it was County Commissioner Tye Menser’s turn to give testimony, he stood up and pulled a letter out of his pocket. He told the people gathered there that he had carried the letter around for months as his guiding light. It was a letter from The Chrysalis Project, written by a high school climate activist. He then read this letter as his testimony as to why Thurston County should adopt and implement the Thurston Climate Mitigation Plan.

That night not only did the county commissioners vote to adopt and implement the plan, they also declared a Climate Emergency for Thurston County—a resounding victory for our community. In part due to The Chrysalis Project: Transforming Together, all four of our local jurisdictions adopted the plan and three of the four declared a Climate Emergency.

The Chrysalis Project was a profound reminder of the power of art to inspire action, forge connections, and create lasting change—especially when communities come together with purpose.

This was the second time one of my Art in Action Projects directly influenced government decisions. This outcome reinforced why this work matters so deeply: It creates opportunities for people to not only see, but to experience new possibilities. Moments like these—the sudden shift of insight in the room when I work with a local government agency, the sharp intake of breath in a mentee who steps through a block and embodies the possibilities of their art—keep me moving forward. It is why, despite the knots of anxiety I sometimes feel, I push myself to speak on stages, sharing stories of collaborations and art that have sparked change in individuals and on community-wide levels.

Doing this work keeps pushing me to grow more and more. It is rarely easy, and sometimes doubts creep in. Other times, there are moments of pure synchronicity and bliss, where my path is clear as a pristine mountain stream. At those times, I know: When we face our fears and work together, we have the power to transform not just ourselves but the world around us.

What is one thing that unexpectedly changed you?

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