{On the Comforts of Tea + True to You 2 INFO}

Up until about three months ago, the only tea I’d touch had to either be a. iced, or b. green. And not the green tea you get in bottles at the gas station, with honey or lemon or any other method of sweetening. I like my green tea bitter, thank you, as intended. After you’ve had ceremonial green tea, that thick, soup-like froth so vibrant, it seems unnatural and magical at the same time, regular green tea is practically tame. 

I’d drink some in the morning, a boost of caffeine on the harder days when my chronic fatigue decided to swoop in and keep me in bed, or in the afternoon when I needed an extra bit of energy to get work done. And since I’m allergic to the oils in coffee, I can’t drink it (except for decaf, and iced, and cold-brewed, and a very light blend -- a combination I don’t expect to find in a cafe any time soon), which severely limits what I can get a a coffee shop. I frequent them enough to need something, and lately have been adventurous when it comes to what I have the girls at the local shop ice, going mostly off their recommendations.  

Last time I was outside -- doctor’s appointment at 11 or so this morning, a short visit, adjustment, medication adjustment -- it was about 104F (40C for my international readers), and yet I’m sitting here with a hot cup of Darjeeling; milk, sugar, until it’s a warm shade of light brown. 

Realistically, my new need for tea -- and around 4pm, to be proper -- comes from the insane amount of BBC programming I’ve been watching as of late, ever-thankful for Netflix and the internet for providing me with a wide range of accents (I have discovered I adore Welsh accents, unless it’s Janette, who is adorable and wins all the awards). There are only so many times John Watson can ask, “Tea?” before a girl has to go find some herself. 

But there’s something more to tea. 

As a student of Japanese culture, I’ve been to several traditional tea ceremonies, both in Chicago and Takamatsu (Kagawa, Japan). There’s a subtle grace to the moments of the ceremony, each designed to bring you closer to the present moment, to clear your mind. It is meditation enhanced by the senses, and each tiny movement has a bigger purpose. Take, for example, the turning of the bowl. When your tea has been poured, the bowl is turned so the design faces you, a way of showing respect, of connecting, without words, for a moment in time. When you finish, the bowl is then turned back towards the practitioner, your thanks for the wonderful tea. 

And I think, in my modern, insanely-hot-but-I-have-air-conditioning world, that the act of standing and going to make tea is a deliberate decision. After hours on the computer or at the desk creating, I pull back to myself, collect the mug, the tea bag, and let it steep. I pour in the milk and watch it swirl. Spoon in some sugar and stir, the click-click of the spoon hitting the sides of the mug a delicate, breakable sound. 

The mug is warm against my hands, and I close my eyes to savor the taste -- sweet and bitter at the same time, a balance known only by my hands scooping the sugar -- reconnecting with myself and the ground, solid, beneath my feet. 

For a few minutes a day, my time is mine and nothing else matters.  

And that, my friends, is priceless. 

It seems, as I sit here, that Drake likes tea just as much as I do. Perhaps we both need a break, a shift, a subtle change in the day that says, “Hello, world. I am here. I am alive. And I am paying attention.” 

*****

You asked, and I'm answering -- click here to download a PDF with all the details about True to You 2! 

The start date is being pushed back until August 1st to allow for all the time I lost while sick! But keep in mind -- if you sign up before July 15th, you'll get it for $44! 

AND! If you haven't taken the original True to You but want to, you can now get it for $20 with the purchase of True to You 2. I'll send a refund via PayPal for the price difference. 

Drop me a line if you have any questions!

{the rhythm of the mountain}

A few weeks ago, my father and brother piled me in the car for a trip to South Mountain. It stands at the southern border of Phoenix proper, a long mountain in the valley that boast cell phone and broadcast towers. I'd wanted to visit since first arriving out here, but never found anyone to go with. 

We climbed high, huffing and puffing, as my brother - 20 years old and full of energy - disappeared from view over the summit of the smaller mound we were climbing. At the top, I could see across all of Phoenix, over to the mountains on the other side, the crescent shape they create, almost cradling the city. 

A bet was made - my brother headed to climb even higher as my father and I camped out on a rock jutting over the edge, the flat, even surface making for a perfect seat. While we waited, munching on trail mix, I wandered off to create a rock tower. 

I don't know why I did it. Actually, I do. I've seen these on blogs over the years, the posts all spiritual and amazing, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. What does piling rocks have to do with anything? Why do it at all? I felt like a child building a sand castle while a bully watched -- would someone knock it down? Why make it if it wouldn't even be noticed? 

Here's the thing they don't tell you -- finding the rocks is the best part. Scattered across the top of the smaller mountain were rocks of all sizes and colors, some more precariously placed that others. I went along trying to find the right size and shape to build the next level -- would this be flat enough to hold another above it? Or would it cause the whole thing to fall over? 

And up there, atop a mountain, there's no sound but the rush of a gentle breeze. It's absolute peace. The longer I searched for rocks, the clearer my mind became. I was focused on my task. And when I finished, I sat on the ground and looked at it, thinking will someone else see this? 

That's the point, I think. That someone else will walk up this mountain and see, among the nature-scattered shapes and plants and flowers, a little bit of connection to someone else. Manmade, yes, but not in the sense we usually think of -- this wasn't a human structure, an architectural monument to all we can create. It was simply rocks, built to honor a Higher Power, to show someone they are not alone in the world, that there are others out there even when the terrain is bleak and bleaching your very bones. 

I found myself swaying to the rhythm of the mountain, reconnecting with nature, with myself, with the Divine. I sat and let myself not think before watching my brother become a dot atop a higher peak. I may not be able to make it up that high, but I can sit lower and appreciate the beauty around me and reassure those passing me on the path that imperfection is not only okay, it's the point. 

{two amazing lessons on one adventurous night}

The cover for my new (next) journal is drying, and the sun’s casting a warm glow over my little area, so I thought I’d pause from picking the PVA from my fingers and finally sit down to write this post.

It’s a week late, as in the events in it happened a week ago, about 30 minutes from now, but I haven’t really been in the mood to write it until now. Forgive me if I ramble, or get deep; I’m writing this as I think, more like telling a story to a friend rather than writing a concise blog post.

Then again, I treat this blog as an open letter to a friend, or to myself, beginning with art six years ago.

There’s this thing in Phoenix called First Fridays. I heard about it pretty soon after I moved here in October, while searching for artful gatherings near me. It’s described as America’s largest self-guided art walk, with galleries and shops opening their doors to a wandering public looking for a good time and great art. There are vendors at several points along the way, and a free trolley helps you get around.

Last Thursday, I was watching Up. And you know the beginning, the part that makes you cry? It also made me realize that the way I was going, I’d have dreams painted on all my walls and never have done one of them. So I decided there and then that I was going to do First Friday. I’m usually hesitant about such things, not because I don’t like crowds or adventures, but rather know I’ll pay for a long walk and physical activity the day, or days, later. A nice little Fibromyalgia parting gift.

But I was going to do it. I had a back-up Vicodin in my pocket, and packed my purse with my journal, a handful of art prints, my wallet, and digital camera. I also packed my younger brother, K, in the car, and we drove to the Phoenix Art Museum to park and catch the trolley. I don’t really know the area, so I figured this would be the best way to go.

So we grabbed a map and stood in the crowd waiting for the East trolley. And that thing was packed as tightly as a Japanese train during rush hour (I presume; I’ve only ridden the Japanese train system during their 9pm rush hour, so the earlier ones could be lighter. Then again, I doubt that very much!). We were the first two to have to stand, and so we rode on down to Roosevelt holding onto the gold bars running above the seats that were smudged with fingerprints.
 

We didn’t really know where to get off, so I suggested the second Roosevelt stop. Why? Because it looked close to stuff. So we waited and soon were released from the trolley in a gush of human traffic, running into those collected on the corner. We were bombarded by hand-outs and fliers from all sorts of people, our hands quickly stuffed.

But it wasn’t until we began wandering down 5th Street that we really realized where we were.

A magical, awesome land.
 

I don’t really know how to describe it other than to show you photographs K took, as he lifted the camera from me sometime on the trolley (note: I wish I had the names of the artists pictured here, but since I wasn't paying attention, I didn't grab cards from all of them). Which was fine, as I was jumping after everything. There are little coffee shops (one sold coffee and crapes!) and tiny galleries where the owners sleep in the back rooms. Giant covered front lawns cluttered with mismatched picnic tables. Back lots with more art to see or bands to hear.
 

People were selling paintings and prints, jewelry and sculptures made from found objects. One woman had several hula-hoops with ribbon wrapped around them. The night was warm and all around us, conversations blended into that rich background that makes you feel more alive just through knowing there are others around you. You could close your eyes or look up at the stars and just feel the creative energy saturating your clothes, your very bones.

I quickly reconized the need to carry a water bottle, and bought one at the coffee and crepes place. K declined. And then, suddenly, we came upon a table covered in cupcakes, water bottles, and --

“Or any of this stuff!” the girl said. “We don’t take money, only trades.”

“And no cell phones,” the second one added.

K laughed. “People have offered you their cell phones?”

“Yep!”

“What’s all that?” I asked. The first girl had a flashlight pointed at a pile of seemingly unconnected junk, random bits you’d find at the bottom of your purse.

“Things people have traded us.”

“Well,” I said, “Those cupcakes look delicious.” I quickly balanced my purse on the table and began digging through all the papers and fliers we’d already collected out of wanting to avoid confrontation, looking for the pile of prints I’d shoved in ‘just in case.’ I pulled out You Can Fly and handed it to the second girl. “Here. K, do you want something?”

“That bottle of water,” he replied.

“This is so cool!” the second girl said, once her friend shined the flashlight on the print. I smiled, K opened the bottle of water, and we continued on.

“I can’t believe my art just bought you that bottle of water,” I told K.

“I know. It’s awesome.”

And he drank half the damn bottle right there.

--

We stepped up onto the high patio of a print shop, where K looked through screenprinted t-shirts. I eyed the decorated flasks in the corner. Outside, on the patio, a DJ changed songs, the beat vibrating through the brick shop.

“These are cool,” he said.

“They’re screenprinted.”

We walked back out into the heat of April in the desert. As we hopped down, K said, “You should do that, Sam.”

“Right. With my little Yudu.”

“It would be really cool.”

I laughed into the night air.

We walked back towards the corner where a company was handing out free cans of something called Sun Drop. I took the offered drink, and so did K. As we neared the corner and the amber light of a streetlight, he held his out.

“I got diet.”

“Good,” I smiled.

We switched drinks and popped open the tabs. It wasn’t half-bad.

--

We entered a white building with chipping paint, deep red showing through the cracks. A fence inside guided us around to a gallery area, where paintings and pieces from all sorts of mediums stood freely or hung on the walls. Right next to the entrance sat a grey box with

THIS WAY TOWARD ENEMY

stenciled on it. It was painted on all visible surfaces.

K laughed at the mirror and camera installation that showed your image over the word SUSPECT.

We went up a staircase to nowhere, descended, and headed back out.

--

Across the way, an open field boasted tented stalls of all sorts of things. K pulled out the camera while I explored one covered in pink. Another had hand-made jewelry that took my breath away and made me regret not pulling any cash out of an ATM before driving down. A display of brass stencils caught my eye, and as I went through them, I remarked,

“Wow. I had about 500 of these in Illinois.”

The owner sighed. “You should have put them on eBay!”

“They might still be in the garage,” I replied.

I grabbed a card after running my fingers over darling earrings, the pang of not being able to bring them home with me a pain that would remind me for next month.

--

We crossed the street to where a band was playing in front of a record shop.

As I walked through the latticed walls covered in paintings, I couldn’t help but feel small. Not in stature, but talent. And here’s where the first amazing thing of the night happened.

Instead of feeling hopeless and depressed, I felt empowered.

Why? Because seeing the work there, being in front of the paintings and saying hello to the tattooed artists who probably have jobs during the day and do this on the side, or struggle by on sales alone, showed me what is possible. I remember reading an interview with Pam Carriker, and the intro said, “She has 20 years experience in art.”

20 years? How can I possible think my art now can be compared to anything like that after only 6? Yes, some people succeed overnight. Others need practice and passion. I was wailing to Lia one night a year ago and she told me, “You know, it took Sabrina [Ward Harrison] 10 years to make any money off her books.”

And walking around, seeing those pieces, I realized I’m only in my artistic infancy. I’m just starting, drawing stick figures with my fingers in kindergarten. I have so much yet to discover and uncover in myself. There’s so many things I need to go through in order to get the rich stuff out. And I’m doing the best anyone wanting to be an artist can -- I am making art every day. A sketch here, watercolors there. Maybe some writing in my Harajuku Lovers composition book Lia sent me to fill with new Arizona dreams. Other days, I’m experimenting with the laugh and disregard of rules of a mad scientist.

Maybe it won’t happen today or tomorrow, but it will as long as I keep showing up. I love the paintings I do now. I love the paintings I did last year. And I can see, when looking between them, how much I’ve grown and learned. There’s a adage in the TV business that goes like this -- in order to get a writing gig in TV, you have to submit a spec script (a script of an episode of an established show in the genre you want to write for). And everyone tells you you don’t submit your first or second or even your fifth. You submit that sixth one, because every one before that was just for practice.

I’m pretty sure it’s the same for art.

--

Our finale for the night was the Firehouse, where artists from all over sell their artwork, jewelery, clothes, and other odds and ends. I walked around and felt like I had to do something. Like this was one of those moments I could either grab for or paint on my walls.

“How does one get to sell stuff here?” I asked.

I got a card. And an enthusiastic, “We’re always looking for new artists!” before we left.

And we were just about to turn and walk to the trolley stop when I noticed there was something pointing to the back lot. Hugging the side of the building was a path lined with roses and bushes growing over a lattice fence. We came out into an area with a stage and chairs and couches set out for the audience. Not knowing what we walked into, K and I took a seat.

Now, you know that feeling I had earlier? That push to go outside my comfort zone and do something? Collect stories instead of pictures on the walls?

I just knew it was going to get me into trouble, because not five minutes later, I was randomly chosen to go up on stage. This wasn’t a volunteer thing -- this was a, “We’re going to pick you and you’re going to do this, damnit!” kind of deal. And I didn’t know what we were going to be doing until I climbed up onto the stage -- and I can still feel the embarrassment tingling across my skin as I write this -- and found out...

Oh, you thought I was going to tell you, didn’t you.

I will reveal this: the second amazing thing that happened that night. A piece of advice for all you afraid to do things you feel in your heart in fear of being embarrassed or laughed at. For those moments when you feel like a moron and want to shrink and hide.

I’m pretty sure -- no, positive -- it is nothing bigger than participating in an orgasmic moaning competition on stage in front of 50 strangers and your little brother recording the whole damn thing on the digital camera he lifted from you an hour ago.

So next time you’re frightened to do something in order to save face or avoid embarrassment, think to yourself, “Is this more scary that what Kira had to do?”

Yeah. Didn’t think so.

And it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I didn’t come in first, but wasn’t last, either, which is a plus. And the rest of the night, I was laughing and smiling because nothing could touch me after that.

--

My brother opted to keep my door prize. And the camera. He said, “I’m so showing this to mom when we get back.”

“Uhh...just as long as it doesn’t end up on YouTube.”

He gave me a wicked smile as we reached the corner where the trolley would be picking us up.

It was across from a Light Rail station.

“Next time, we’re taking that down here,” I said with a tight smile, still wondering how I could get the camera back. “Cause we could have stayed so much later.”

--

K gave me the camera after I revealed, as we sat on the trolley back to the art museum, that I had the dongle that plugged into the computer at the bottom of my purse.

He asked for it back two hours later.

--

The next day, I walked into the bookstore and gave my number to the guy there I’d been crushing on for a few weeks. After the night before, what was a little flirting?

(And if you’re reading this, why haven’t you called? And if you did, why no voice mail?)

Perhaps that’s the final lesson. That you can have all the practice in the world, get rid of the embarrassment from your life, but in the end, you’ve gotta own it. All of it.

So stop painting pictures on your walls and get out into the world.

It’s waiting.

{show them what you're worth}

At times, I forget how solitary art-creating can be.

Push aside interacting online or showing your work to others, or even being published --all you create comes from you, a stillness within, and comes out in your own secret alphabet on paper or canvas or fabric. You are the only one who sees all you’ve created, can see the struggle hidden beneath the layers of a painting or the pain in the swirled doodles running off the edge of a journal page. No one else pages through your journals the way you do, reading the words seen and unseen.

Simply put, the outside world has no idea what you go through to create.

A few days ago, I was feeling the pressure of getting a few projects finished. I’ve improved a bit when it comes to deadlines, finishing bits up at least a day or two before they’re due, but this is the result of putting incredible pressure on myself to finish, and finish early so you’re sending in quality -- not rushed -- work. I’d been sick for about a week, starting off with a horrible flare-up of my fibromyalgia (to the point I couldn’t get out of my bed without crying from the pain) and ending with a stomach bug that kept me up for 36 hours straight. All in all, I could only think of all the things I should be doing, while trying to remind myself to forget that incorrigible word.

Recovery takes longer when you have fibromyalgia. What takes you a day takes me a few, and on that day at the beginning of the week, I was really feeling everything fall on my shoulders.

And so, when talking to my mother, I said:

“I don’t understand why you don’t see what I’m doing as work.”

A bit of back-story: I work my ass off. There’s a lot more to living as an artist full-time than just making paintings and having no set work schedule. There’s administrative things. Posts and social media to keep up on. Images to snap and crop and fix up. Clients to speak to. Money and accounts to balance. Emails to answer (you’ll be happy to know I’ve instituted an ‘answer when you read it’ policy when it comes to comments and notes). Packages to mail.

And this all happens in a small area at the back of my apartment, away from others. Remember how I said art-making is solitary?

She responded with something that really got me thinking:

“That’s because we never see any of the money.”

I know we don’t do this for the money, that art is a way for us to express ourselves, deal with the difficulties of our lives, even works as a meditative state for many of us. But that’s inside our world. Outside, the world still measures worth by how profitable it is, even if that statements a bit backwards and capitalist.

But her statement got me thinking about a few things. First, the solitary nature of art-creating. How many of you share all you create with your families? Do they understand when you’ve been re-tweeted or linked to by someone well-known, or that you’ve won a workshop or print from someone they’ve never heard of? How many of us have taken the time to really explain what our world consists of -- and what is valuable to us, as artists?

We should invite our families into our studios and show them what we’re doing. Explain to them how important this is to you -- let them see the joy it brings. Bring them into the fold when it comes to swaps or projects you’re working on, and try to impart the significance of what you’re doing. Let them share the victories and comfort you when things don’t go so well.

For example, whenever I’m working on a painting or piece for a project, I show it to my family and close friends and ask for their honest opinions of what I’m creating. It doesn’t matter that, maybe, my style isn’t their favorite kind of art, or if they even like art. What matters is they get to see something as I work on it, the steps in-between, and offer constructive criticism that might actually help me improve my art.

Most of my funds come through Paypal, and if you’re not reading my emails, you won’t see any activity. When I do get paid for articles or interviews, I jump up and down and show it off -- let my family and friends see the little steps of success I’ve made, and that helps them to appreciate what I work on. But what about the other stuff? Maybe I should take them out to dinner, or offer to pay for movie tickets once and awhile. I don’t make a huge amount of money with what I do, but I think it is important to show others my world in terms they can understand.

The second part was actually a realization prompted by a combination of my mother’s comment and Dawn Sokol’s treasured friendship. It is the value of your work.

I love my (mostly) weekly coffee dates with Dawn. We talk about what we’re working on, what we’ve seen, share our art and lives. She gets things in a way my family doesn’t (which is why what I’ve written above is so important).

She also is a great voice of reason and reality.

She has said, “Kira, I think you’re undervaluing yourself.”

How many of us do this? How many of us look at the work we’re creating and compare it to others’ and figure it isn’t worth much? I think there’s a difference between being humble and having a low self-esteem, and it’s so hard to find that balance in the art world.

When I priced my paintings for the Charity Sale to help Japan (which is still running, if you’re looking for a way to donate to the Red Cross & get a painting to boot!), I actually had to message my friend Nolwenn and said, “Can you go look at the prices I’ve picked and make sure I’m not undervaluing myself?”

Sometimes we need others to show us how much we’re worth. I may think listing a painting for $105 is silly, but I sold that painting within 24 hours of putting up the charity sale. We need others to be there to knock us on the head when we’re not at our best, to be an outside source looking at our creations. All I can see are flaws. All others can see is perfection.

By the way, when I told my mother I sold that painting, she went, “You could have gotten $105 for that?”

I think that was a big message to her as to how far I’ve come.

So show your family and friends what you’re really worth. Take the time to share your world and art and thoughts. Let your kids create alongside you. Turn off the TV for a half-hour to babble on about your latest blog post or amazing email.

By sharing your world, it’ll grow and blossom in ways you never imagined.

{it's time to start investing in yourself just as you invest in the outside world}

It is sunny and warm here, today.

I have projects to work on, but my body has decided it'd like to continue its vacation, and has lorded a wave of exhaustion over me.

And I want to fight the flow.

"I have videos to film and finish!" I say.

"But you haven't worked on your painting. Or blogged much. Or made a tangled mess in your journal!" my body responds. "Sit down and rest and do these things instead."

"But deadlines!" I sputter.

"You will reach them. You need to relax, darling. Take it easy. Stop pushing so hard."

I understand the wisdom in those words -- how can I not, if I was the one to speak them? -- yet want to push further, do more. Stay up late painting and spend hours on end creating. I want to be normal. Healthy and able to sleep only four hours a night so I have more time to create. I want to bring all my ideas into the world and do it now. 

How can we do it, though? All of us, collectively. How do we carve out this time so we don't have to live in our heads anymore? Surround ourselves with the very things our minds have dreamed up? 

We get up.

Stand, right now, and find your journal, canvas, beads, or threads. Hold them in your hands, slide your fingers over them. Close your eyes. Let the texture transport you. Imagine all you can create with them, all that's inside, bursting to get out. Take five minutes and show your supplies a little love! You can do that, can't you? Even in your cube at work, or just before dinner is finished, or between children running -- you can take five minutes and do something, anything.

The goal is not to finish, but to get started.

Because once you start something, the universe comes to help. It's like contributing to your retirement account -- you put in 5 minutes, and the universe will match that. And it just keeps growing and growing.

I recently decided I'm going to put $10 a month into a retirement account. Invest it. Let it go and grow. Why can't we, as grown-ups, see that our souls need the same type of care? All the money in the world won't satisfy you in the same way as a happy soul.

Invest 5 minutes today. And tomorrow. And soon, you'll notice you can do 10 minutes without the world falling on your head. Then 20. Then, who knows? The universe loves you and may add more -- you give it 5, it'll give 10. Give it 10, you'll get 20.

Small steps. You can do it.

I believe in you. Remember that, when you're creating. I believe in you and your talent and your creative soul. I give you the gift of validation -- what you're doing is not a waste of time, or silly, or ugly. It is a beautiful singing song that floats into the sky and makes birds smile.

{getting lost in translation}

I had this whole post lined up for today, glamor shots of various projects on my desk at the moment, each swirling with color and intent. They’re not the for-fun pages I’ve created for the past five years, those explorations in the studio that lead me to where I am now; instead, each is being created for a specific purpose, a plan in place up in the air somewhere that I’m clinging to like a child tethered to a kite in a thunderstorm.

And saying all this, I’ve been in incredibly high spirits lately.

But yes, intent. I feel as though I have something to say. Instead of letting emotion spill onto the page and hoping others can pick it up, I have thoughts and words and meanings and lessons I want to convey, except now I’m having some sort of speech problem, much like when I try, after being out of college for five years, to construct a sentence in Japanese.

すみませんわたしはまいご…

Befitting, as I received a letter today that says, on a collage:

Dear Samie,

Your art is awesome and so are you!

Love, Erica

A beautiful piece of art, with a letter attached, and I had tears in my eyes as I read it. Who would have thought I’d ever receive anything like this 5 years ago when I began teaching myself to draw?

I want to tell stories. I always have. Ever since I was ten years old and wrote the saga of a girl on the Oregon Trail for class, I’ve been addicted to telling stories. Those of you who follow me on Twitter know that I have a perchance for little fan stories (and if not, there’s nothing to see here, move along *innocent whistle*). And lately, each painting I work on tells me a story about myself, and seems to be transforming me, a bit at a time, into something new.

Shiny, but worn on the edges.

A couple weeks ago, I was lamenting about how I didn’t have much money. Which is true, and a naturally reoccurring pity-fest in my life, except this time, I realized what the problem was.

Me.

I’d become my own roadblock. I couldn’t blame the world or the internet or anything but myself. I’d been doing things without really producing anything, creating without making a single thing. And my stories were getting angry, being all bottled up inside, words craving to get out. So I began writing. I’d write in the morning or late at night. I wrote, a few days ago, well past midnight, having shot up out of bed with words floating across my sight.

And these pages. These paintings and journal pages, they’re beginning to take on the same effect. I’ll work late at night or early or instead of watching favorite shows on TV (which is almost unheard of). They’re telling me stories and I have no control over what the endings are. They simply are.

This one, though, has me befuddled. I feel not disappointed in it, but that, after what’s been said about the two before it, that I’m the disappointing one. Except I see this story in there, this beauty no one may ever see because they weren’t there. And I wish my grammar was better or something, because now I have another canvas, another journal and bits of me, and I’m getting lost in translation.

Or am I?

Wild, random thoughts can be dangerous. I think the perfect remedy for this is to go create more pages for my new class and hope I can string words together better on the page. Because I have all this love and desire to share and help others unlock, and if I can’t, if I’m not saying it right, well, wouldn’t that just suck?

I'm not down, just reflective. Sitting on the edge of a hill, not knowing what's past the next one, just that it's gonna rock.

{a letter to a darling}

I was thinking last night about the Mystery Mentor project and what my last message would be to my mentee. Through a twist of fate, my mentor, an angel mentor who came into the game halfway through January, lives in the next town over, and has even invited me to one of her workshops this week!

But what to say to the mentee? What would see her with Believing Eyes and help her through the tough times?

And then realized I want to write this letter to all of you — to the Me of two years ago, to the girls I get emails from, to those just starting. To old hats and youngsters alike.

To the younger sister I’ll never have by blood, but may by spirit.

Dear Darling,

It is going to happen.

I know it is hard. I know, right now, that your dreams still feel so far away, stars in distant galaxies, swirling out of reach. You’re bound to the Earth beneath your feet and watch, dazed, as others achieve what you want so badly, your heart aches in your chest.

And because they are closer to your star, you are going to compare yourself to them. This is inevitable, and will happen your entire life. Never mind that they’ve been working on things for years, or have more experience, or are older — in your mind, nothing will matter but the fact that they are doing what you wish you were.

You’ll work on your art and compare it to others, wondering why they get more comments or views or tweets than you. You’ll post to your blog and watch your inbox and wonder what you did “wrong.” Where are they? Why hasn’t the world noticed you?

When do you get your wings?

They say hindsight is 20/20, but that’s only if you turn around and look behind you. Sometimes, we become so focused on the distant star, we don’t notice we’ve begun to fly from the ground and float into the blackness. And, oh, darling, it is dark! As you begin to navigate far from your comfort zone, you won’t know where to turn. You’ll be scared, frightened of taking a wrong turn, one that takes you farther from your dream.

But there is no such thing as a wrong turn. What we believe is best for us may not be what is truly the best for us. There is a divine order to things, a power greater than you and me and every being on this planet, and She will not lead you astray.

When the fear is building in you — your heart pumping faster, palms slick with sweat, stomach tied in impossible knots — be still. Remember who you are and where you came from, the experiences in your life that shaped you, the talents only you possess. Listen to the wind or a song on a random playlist or the random doodles in your sketchbook.

Life is scary. But you have a fire burning in you, a passion that cannot be put out by anyone but yourself. You will rise and fall and skin your knees, and that is The Moment that decides everything — will you get up? Or will the count hit 10 and the lights go out but for that tiny, far-off spec of a dream?

Take it from me — it will happen. And when it does, you’ll look back and wonder how you ever thought something else was your destiny in life. Your star will change as you do, will shine brighter as you grow, will warm you on the coldest, saddest days.

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a writer. I knew in my heart I’d grow up to write amazing short stories and novels. I wrote — and continue to write — in my spare time, obsessively typing while watching prime-time TV (learning how to type faster and spell as I did so!). I was so focused on that, I never considered art. Never thought I’d draw or paint or doodle. I was going to write. And my eyes were so glued to that star, it was only a few years later, when I was writing articles for magazines, that I realized I’d made it — only my star had changed for the better.

Yes, some people will seemingly come out of nowhere and gain popularity, and others will hold it for years to come, but that is their path, not yours. Have Faith, darling, because it’s going to be dark for a long time.

But that only means when you reach that first star — and see all the others lined up behind it, obscured from view by your myopic mind — the blazing joy will only be that much brighter.

Now get out that paintbrush and go to work.

With all my love,

Samantha Kira

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The image above is of my painting Everygirl, who is all of us, any color or race or age -- we are all creative beings. You can grab an 8"x8" print of her at my Etsy shop.

{inner radiance (reverb10 24-25)}

December 24 – Everything’s OK. What was the best moment that could serve as proof that everything is going to be alright? And how will you incorporate that discovery into the year ahead?

I keep thinking there isn’t really a moment, but then realize it’s only because non-okay things have happened after such moments of clarity, and for some reason, was holding onto the idea that such things instantly negated the okay moment.

For example, when my second workshop of this year, True to You, was open for registration, and I saw how many people were signing up, I thought, “Okay. I can do this full-time artist thing.” And then, two months later, the money was gone and I was back to having panic attacks all the time over things like being able to afford medications and pay simple bills.

But then things were okay again, and something else came along, and my spirits were lifted.

This is were most of the stress in my life comes from, and it’s really my own fault, isn’t it? I set out to accomplish something, then skate on by for awhile until I absolutely must be spurred into action. Like waves crashing into shore, I enjoy the beach until the next one smashes into the sand, the storm on the horizon always threatening to make landfall. Sure, I transitioned from making what I thought people wanted into making what I enjoyed, but for some reason, always saw things like making classes or doing broadcasts as chores to be performed before I could have fun.

This isn’t a healthy mindset, and yet I spent most of the year dwelling in it.

If I’m honest with myself, brutally this-may-hurt-you honest, I know my moment was back in March after I’d put together my first journal-making mini-workshop. There was a lot of insanity happening in my life at the time, things I had no control over and yet was forced to coexist with; I was miserable in life but excited in art. I poured myself into anything in my studio I could, and went from being sociable to spending hours at a time in the studio, sometimes doing no more than playing on the computer. It became my safe haven in a storm whirling around me, a special place untouched by anyone else. In fact, I rarely let anyone else enter, and almost always had the door closed.

But at that same time, I realized I’d be okay. Sure, I’d go through droughts, as I no longer received a steady paycheck. I’d have ideas and those interested in learning things I’d crafted. I’d have fun and do something more with all I had in my mind. And I think I knew, somewhere deep inside, that even though things were going downhill all around me, as long as I knew myself and had my art, I’d be just fine.

This is a bit related to an experience I had a few years ago. My best friend was planning on going to Los Angeles for her final semester of school, and had really been planning it all along. About a week before applications were due, I was suddenly struck by the notion that I, too, was supposed to go. So what if it was for comedy writing and I was a drama person? I could broaden my horizons, have an amazing experience, and try out something new.

And so I went into that meeting with all these comedy people I only knew from production and business classes with, and turned in my application. Got more money from my student loans to cover expenses. There came a point, though, when the complex we’d be staying in called to say I needed a co-signer to guarantee I’d pay my share. I didn’t have anyone in my life to do that for me except my best friend, and she could hardly back me since she, too, would be staying in the same place.

Dejected, I called the girl who would ultimately be on record as the one who rented the apartment, and told her I could positively pay the money, had it coming via student aide, and swore I’d never screw her. Amazingly, she said she trusted me.

(On a side note, we didn’t really hang out or talk until the second to last day, and it was then we realized how much we had in common; in fact, the reason we didn’t chat much is because we were both in our rooms relaxing or working diligently on our coursework!)

I was frightened to leave my home for such a long time, and be clear across the country. But I’d also been working on myself, on my self-esteem and identity and all those bits that make up a truly amazing life. I knew I had to let go of fear and just do it — go with what my heart was telling me.

My time out there was one of the best times of my life. And the first time I sobbed from overwhelming happiness.

So I knew, back in March, when I had that moment again — that moment filled with fear and yet there was such certainty in my soul, I knew I couldn’t do anything else, or else I’d always wonder:

What if?

So that’s my gift to you today. Sit down. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath and let the world simply fall away around you. Listen to yourself, your heart. And follow it. Or else you may be working one day and find yourself paralyzed by the sadness that comes with wondering what if… what if I’d only done the scary, unusual, adventurous thing I knew with my heart I should have jumped for?

December 25 – Photo – a present to yourself
Sift through all the photos of you from the past year. Choose one that best captures you; either who you are, or who you strive to be. Find the shot of you that is worth a thousand words. Share the image, who shot it, where, and what it best reveals about you.

Unless I’m out with a group of people, I never take a “naked” picture of myself. And before you get all weirded out, I mean without make-up or my hair done. That was always a principle part of preparing for videos or photo shoots (like my younger brother, I love staging photo shoots by myself, using the timer on my camera to grab the shots). Actually, even when I’m with a group of people, I’ve put on my face, as my grandmother called it. I used to think I wasn’t good looking, that my face had too many scars, so would be embarrassed to be seen without a nice layer of foundation and powder on my face.

(I still am, actually, but have grown comfortable with wearing less make-up.)

Looking through my shots, I found myself thinking on this prompt, looking for someone I truly am or want to be. And while my photos are lovely, they already have meaning behind them. A thought or idea I kept in mind while shooting them.

Or they were of me out with friends, enjoying myself. Which, sure, could have a good shot to use, but it just didn’t feel right.

By chance, I stumbled on this shot. I was working on a prompt from Liz Lamoreaux’s book Inner Excavation, about documenting a day through photos. I’d resolved myself the night before to keep my camera close by and take photos of ordinary, amazing moments throughout the next day.

While I only made it about an hour (and then forgot to bring my camera with and missed some stuff), this shot survived.

When I was little, I used to love climbing onto the school bus early in the morning. People’s eyes, right after they wake up, have a sparkle to them. They’re softer, more open, and amazingly beautiful. Every day, I’d love looking at my classmates and their sublime early day eyes before their shields or masks went up and things became sharp edges.

That’s why I love this photo. There’s no pretense. I had just woke up and was heading out to walk the dogs when I snapped this photo of me in the mirror (which is why it’s blurry — I have shaky hands!). No make-up, with my hair thrown up in a quick ponytail.

And I think I’m radiant in it.

(Even though I do look half-asleep. I imagine this is how my face would look were I to turn into a zombie.)