I've been feeling a little fascinated recently by this idea that the most we can do to move ourselves toward the life we want is offer our energy—consistently, steadily, and with care in our hearts—to the things we want to create.
Anything beyond that is pretty much outside of our control.
I think we often get caught up in the notion that there's one right and perfect way to do things (does anyone else identify as a recovering perfectionist?) and that we must give it 150% or else it might not be worth doing.
But I have, time and time again, witnessed in my own life that that simply isn't how things grow.
Not gardens.
Not relationships.
Not businesses.
Not creative practices.
And certainly not people.
The things that seem to flourish tend to do so because they receive a little attention over a long period of time. Not because they were forced into existence through sheer determination.
As someone who spends a lot of time thinking about seasonal living, creativity, and living in closer relationship with nature, this feels like one of those truths that keeps showing up in different forms, asking to be learned again and again.
The Freedom of Finite Energy
I'll be the first to admit that I can be an inspired and impulsive person, quick to enact ideas that I then run out of steam for.
And maybe it's a symptom of growing up a little more, but I am sensing a healthy sense of defeatism taking hold.
I have finally come to the sobering understanding that I have finite time and energy, and that each of the things I want to make manifest in my life requires far more time and energy than I actually have available.
For a long time, that realization felt disappointing.
Lately, though, it has started to feel oddly liberating.
Because if I truly want something to grow, I have to choose very carefully what receives my energy.
This might sound like a bleak epiphany, but it has had two unexpected positive side effects.
The first is that I have become more intentional about what I let into my life and what I choose to give my energy to. I have become more discerning, and in the process, have gained a clearer understanding of what actually matters to me.
The second is that I have begun to experience a deeper sense of peace and fulfillment from the things I do spend my time on.
Almost as if my energy is soothed and nourished by being poured more fully into fewer things.
A Lesson From the Garden
Last week, I was watering our community garden.
The beans were climbing higher than I remembered. The squash seemed to have doubled in size overnight. Tiny weeds were already reclaiming the spaces we'd cleared just days before.
As I moved slowly from bed to bed with the hose, it occurred to me that if I had to choose one word to describe this season of life, it would be:
Tend.
Not achieve.
Not optimize.
Just tend.
Much like a garden, our lives flourish where we water, weed, and nourish them. And they tend to diminish where we don't.
That's not a judgment.
It's just the nature of things.
The garden doesn't care what I meant to do this week. It responds to what I actually gave my attention to.
And I suspect our lives work much the same way.
When I look back on the seasons of my life that felt the most meaningful, they weren't necessarily the ones where I accomplished the most. They were the ones where I showed up consistently for the things I loved.
A relationship.
A creative practice.
A community.
A patch of soil.
A morning ritual.
A dream that took years instead of months.
The results were rarely immediate. But over time, they accumulated into something beautiful.
Tending a Creative Life
I've been carrying that thought with me into the studio lately.
Over the past few months, I've been slowly tending a new (interactive) series inspired by the seasons and our connection to it.
It's funny—when I first imagined the project, I had visions of moving through it quickly and efficiently. But the flowers seem to have had other plans.
Instead, the collection has unfolded the same way most meaningful things do: slowly, one painting at a time, one observation at a time, one quiet hour in the studio at a time.
I've found myself paying closer attention on walks. Stopping to notice a patch of lupine blooming alongside the trail. Pulling over to admire a hillside covered in mule's ears. Watching how different flowers emerge and fade as the season progresses.
In many ways, the collection feels like a reflection of the very thing I've been writing about here.
Pay attention.
Show up.
Offer your energy.
Trust the process a little.
And let the seasons do what they do.
As an artist, I often find myself looking to nature for guidance. The mountains don't rush. The wildflowers don't bloom all at once. The seasons don't skip ahead.
Everything unfolds in its own time.
Perhaps we're allowed to do the same.
I'm looking forward to sharing more of the collection with you soon.
What Are You Tending?
As you move through this season, I invite you to consider:
What is receiving your time, energy, and attention right now?
What is flourishing because of your care?
And perhaps just as importantly:
What are you choosing not to water?
Because while we cannot control every outcome, we can choose what we tend.
And over time, those choices shape the landscape of our lives.
I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Feel free to send me a note and tell me what you're tending these days. Hearing what is unfolding in your corner of the world remains one of my favorite parts of sharing these reflections.
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