I see others in my community who have a passion for creativity, and who want to make a difference in the world.

Sometimes it feels like there is very little we can do. The problems are big, and deeply entrenched in our history and culture.

Our vote is such a tiny way to affect change

I believe we can reach out and make a difference wherever we are, within our arms length.

Each of us has our own talents and abilities, as well as our own vision as to how to use them.

It’s so easy to make excuses. We’re tired. We’re in the midst of a pandemic. We don’t know what to do.

Kindness is free.

You don’t have to be an expert. You don’t have to solve anything for anyone else. We don’t know what we can accomplish until we try.

My eyes are open. I see people who want to help. I notice people reaching out through social media posts, and through their art, no matter the medium.

I’m no politician, but my platform is kindness.

We’re all learning. Everyone seems to have a different idea about what is right. I’d rather be kind than right. I’d rather learn something than close my mind off by thinking I already have the right answer.

People need to be loved, not coerced or controlled. Most of the time, they don’t need advice. Just love. Just a listening ear, without judgment.

Judge yourself. Work on changing yourself.

The whole time I was working on my new book, the pen cooperated with me. It was fidgety and just wanted me to hold it.

A few times, I thought the book was finished, but then life kept coming at me, and it seemed there was still more to say.

When Mom died last July, I believed that was how the book would end, and I planned to include mom’s beautiful letter as an appendix.

I kept writing, and had other reasons not to include mom’s words this time.

Then one day I wrote a piece called The End, and I thought that was a fitting place to stop.

The pen would practically dance on my nightstand until I picked it up to see what it had to say.

Once I finally sent the book off to the printer in Colorado, the pen no longer begged to be held.

Every creative expression comes in its own time.

What I have right now are a lot of ideas and plans.

When the camera or video camera, the pottery wheel, paintbrush, tablet or pen call to me, I will find out what message they have to convey. I will do that thing until I stop it to do something else.

Pottery is a long process for me, because I am not yet self sufficient. I rely on someone with a kiln. A year ago, I started to learn to throw pots on a borrowed wheel.

Today I got a new batch of pots from their glaze firing, and I was disappointed with the results. I had an expectation for what they would look like, and they just didn’t look the way I thought they would. I layered different glazes, which got a little thick, and obfuscated the fish carvings underneath. I told my son that the glaze looked like melted chewing gum.

It wasn’t until I was photographing the pieces later, that I began to see them for what they were, without the lens of expectation, and I saw that some of the disappointments were actually beautiful.

Imperfections show that these are handmade objects, and this, to me, is the point. I could buy dishes from a retail store, and they would be much more consistent and blemish free.

I love to see the brushstrokes in a painting, and I appreciate the variation and visible process in pottery as well.