possibility

I've been thinking a lot lately about how life rarely unfolds the way we think it will. There are seasons when the changes are subtle, almost unnoticeable. And then there are those that ask you to reconsider nearly everything you thought you knew about yourself, the future, and the life you've spent years building.

I've found myself in one of those seasons.

It's strange to feel both grateful for the life you've lived and uncertain about the one unfolding in front of you. To recognize that something can have been beautiful and meaningful, even if it doesn't look the way you thought it would. To feel sadness for what has changed while also experiencing genuine excitement about what might be possible. I've learned that those feelings don't always need to be reconciled. Sometimes they simply exist together.

Returning to art has been one of the more unexpected gifts of this time in my life. I've always loved creating, but painting has taken on a different meaning for me. Not because I set out to make art about loss or change, but because it gave me something I hadn't realized I needed: a place to be entirely myself, without expectations, explanations, or the pressure to have everything figured out. For so much of life, it's easy to become who we're needed to be. We build routines, take care of people, meet expectations, and carry on. And while there's beauty in those things, I think we can sometimes forget to ask ourselves what brings us joy, what makes us curious, or even what we want.

I'm asking myself those questions again.

And for reasons I can't entirely explain, I went back to painting landscapes. The marshes, the open skies, the changing light, the familiar places I've passed hundreds of times but lately I've found myself looking at it a little differently. The same landscape can feel entirely new depending on the light, the season, or even the person standing in front of it. I can paint the same marsh a dozen times and never see it the same way twice. Maybe that's why I love them. I can change my mind, take a different direction, or decide that what I thought I wanted to create isn't what the painting needs at all. Maybe that's one of the things art has reminded me about life. We can be certain of something one day and see it differently the next. We can change direction without diminishing everything that came before. We can begin again without having to erase the past.

I've also been thinking about connection, and how much of life is shaped by the people who move through it. The conversations that stay with us. The friendships that give us room to be ourselves. The people who remind us of parts of ourselves we may have forgotten. And more importantly, I have learned vulnerability isn't always about being fearless. Sometimes it's simply being willing to be seen, to say something true, or to allow yourself to care without knowing exactly what happens next. There is something incredibly freeing about that.

Not everything meaningful needs to last forever, and not every beautiful thing needs to become something more. Some experiences simply leave us with a different understanding of ourselves, of other people, or of the world around us. That's worth something, too.

Things worth noticing is a phrase that keeps coming up as I've been creating this new collection. What we notice changes with time, experience, and perspective. The things that once seemed important may become less so, while the smallest moments can take on entirely new meaning. Things worth noticing and possibility sort of collided, by accident, while I was brainstorming with an old friend from high school. We decided Possibility was the perfect name for this collection because I wanted it to reflect something more than a series of landscapes. To me, possibility isn't necessarily the promise of something better or the certainty of a happy ending. It's the willingness to remain open. To new perspectives, unexpected connections, unfamiliar experiences, and even versions of ourselves we haven't met yet. It's making room for the life in front of us, even when it looks different from the one we planned.

And maybe the most surprising part of all of this has been realizing that I don't need to have myself completely figured out. That at this stage of life, I can still discover new things about who I am, what I love, and what I want. There's sadness in some of that but also a tremendous amount of freedom. I don't know exactly what this blog will become. I imagine there will be plenty about painting, the places that inspire me, reflections on life, the people and experiences that shape us, and probably (most definitely) humor.

I’m not here to turn every difficult experience into something beautiful. Some things are simply hard, and not everything needs to become a lesson. But I do believe there is something hopeful about continuing to create, to remain curious, to let ourselves be seen, and to find joy in the things we might otherwise overlook.

For now, that's what I'm choosing to pay attention to. The things worth noticing and all the possibility that remains.

Love,

Shannon