Home

How are you?

Really . . .

HOW? ARE? YOU?

It’s been over a year—18 months to be exact—since we’ve connected.

I miss you.  

I thought Paint Brush would take a short break. Her short break turned into a long break. 

It all started when I asked myself the question, “What does home mean to me?” I refer to the old adage, “Home is where the heart is.” My heart beats in Michigan, where I grew up. It was time to return home.

As always, my person, aka, Chuck Schwabe, listened. He was somewhat surprised. But he understood. He supported my heart’s message. And that started a flurry of activity:

We listed our house in Hendersonville. Six stressful months passed—have you ever lived in a house while keeping it spotless for showings? Clean as it was, we didn’t have a single offer.

And, by the way, the second month into our contract, we welcomed a chocolate lab puppy into our home and named her Leola Mae, after my mother. Certainly, she’d be sweet, kind, and gentle like Lucie. Leola Mae quickly earned her nickname: Triple D . . . Damn. Devil. Dog. Ah yes, “Triple D, I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck. But you make my life a wreck!!!”

While all this was going on I finished three books for Legacies In Ink, completed four online art classes, and produced three new series of paintings, all symbolic of our pending move to Michigan: Daybreak, Don’t Fence Me In, and Beyond the Horizon.

Our house still didn’t sell. But my soul wouldn’t give it up: “It’s time to return home to Michigan. NOW.” So, we bought a bungalow in St. Joe, Michigan, packed my stuff, and I, along with Lucie and Triple D, moved. Chuck drives back and forth once a month and will do so until our house in Hendersonville sells.

I love, love, love St. Joe: We’re close to Erin, Sam, and Gabe; Lake Michigan sparkles a half-mile from our doorstep; black squirrels visit our yard;  St. Joe itself features year-round festivals, a  farmer’s market on the bluff overlooking the lake, a charming historic downtown with a small-town vibe, walkable brick streets, eclectic food and wine. And, yes, there are four distinct seasons—a snow shovel sits in our garage—waiting.  I’m on an adventure of new, meaningful discoveries.

Along with that comes new, taxing challenges: missing the day-to-day interaction with my person, missing my Hendersonville friends, living in 900 square feet with my box of chocolates, working in an art studio not much larger than the proverbial postage stamp, meeting new people, mega potholes, finding new professionals, fixing my garage door, patching the outdoor siding Triple D chewed to shreds, opening stubborn pickle jars, mowing our lawn.

Discoveries and challenges alike, I’m happy to tell you I punched my ticket. I returned home.  As Steven Pressfield says in The Artist’s Journey, “You are an artist, as you always wished to be. You, the seeker, have at last returned home.”

Enough about me.

HOW? ARE? YOU?

Lucie, Triple D, and I real ly, really want to know

.Please.