Dear Starlight,
I've lived a mysterious story with a regular pattern.
I dream of a place—one that holds beauty, creativity, and belonging for myself and my family.
Then, in ways that feel touched by magic, I find it--or it finds me.
I move toward it like a hermit crab sprinting for shelter.
I shed one shell and scurry into another.
Then... I shrink, withdraw, and hide.
I don't let myself fully expand into what I've imagined and manifested. I give the good rooms to others, often imagined others, others who are in an imagined future. I set up shop for the benefit of a client, an audience—.
I move myself to the basements, attics, and unheated outbuildings.
The anticipated pleasure of another becomes my purpose in the place and my original dream lays discounted and disowned or pushed into the closet.
–
In Hudson, NY, my first home was a grand federal townhouse.
I started Casa Mia (My home), a charming little shop in the downstairs parlor.
I made my bedroom in the tiniest room—later, our walk-in closet.
Eventually, the shop took over our whole living space. Two guest rooms became showrooms.
My studio? The attic. Three floors up, unheated, with the perfume of rodent rot.
I eventually move Casa Mia out of my house but the rooms were reverted back to guest rooms, clean, and perfectly awaiting others.
I then saved enough money as a private chef to build myself a "real studio" on Warren Street.
It had movable walls, a sink, and sunlight.
Then I thought, 'This should be a gallery.'
Which meant it had to stay clean, light, not used.
That same week, I learned I was pregnant.
The first four months were a blur of nausea and exhaustion.
When I recovered, I tiptoed around the space, keeping it "show ready".
I couldn't make a mess.
Then my son was born.
Then my sister died.
Then the housing market crashed.
And I abandoned the studio that still looked brand new.
Then we moved to our "dream home" in Germantown—
A rambling Victorian full of rooms.
Guest rooms, playrooms, and my husband's office.
My studio? A dilapidated outbuilding with no insulation or Sheetrock.
Later, I found a magical place that became Instar Lodge.
I convinced my husband it could be our shared dream—his chef's kitchen, my workshops and studio.
But it was soooooo big...
So I invited friends to share the space.
It became a gallery, a gathering place, and a FT unpaid arts administrative job.
For four years, I ran a community project space. Beautiful. Exhausting. No time for myself.
When I finally saved again, I renovated the dilapidated back building on our property to finally be a proper studio.
My husband and I would share it. I would make art again.
But I started Place Corps around the same time.
By the time the studio was ready, I was no longer a studio artist.
So it became a guest cottage.
Then we moved into what could only be called a queenly estate.
But I was too shy to tell anyone; it was too beautiful – it didn't make sense. How could I live somewhere with carved hedges and a swimming pool? Who was I? Royalty?
I made my closet and sewing room in the attic.
Tried ceramics in the unheated basement.
—
Just the other day, bare feet in moist moss, slurpy compost pail in hand, I stop in my tracks. The breeze rustles the trees. A stream babbling nearby.
Then, OH. OHHHHHHHH!
I almost rejected this...this gift. This dream. This place.
Hummingbird Hollow.
Standing barefoot in moss, I understand.
This pattern is not bad, exactly. It's just twisted.
—
I love sharing creative practices with others.
I love teaching.
I know Creativity & Courage is my heARTwork.
I'm an experiential learner. A dabbler.
I'm a social practice artist.
A writer.
An introvert.
A nature lover.
A seeker.
A maker.
—
So why share all this?
Because the pattern of dreaming big and generously for myself is real.
Because I am a powerful manifestor of dreams.
AND, I'm an even more powerful negator of my gifts.
I create incredible opportunities for others.
AND, it turns out, for myself too.
BUT, I send them back with a strange mix of pride, fear, and shame.
"I don't deserve this," I tell myself.
"Maybe the broken, cold, spidery room—not the pretty big one."
Then I sit in the basement and wonder:
When will the King and Queen notice me and invite me to the banquet?
How much longer must I prove I'm worthy?
I not only deny myself the good rooms—
I punish myself for not being productive in the cold ones.
Each space comes with a condition. A performance clause.
One I drafted, signed, and agreed to.
—
I've even noticed this pattern at artist residencies.
The first week or two, I panic. “I don’t belong here!”
Is there a name for that? Neurotic.
But this week, standing in moss, toes deep in green—
I suddenly realize:
I am the King and Queen I've been waiting for.
And I always have been.
Living in a scullery maid shell.
--
What does this mean now?
I don't entirely know.
But I believe this: the King and Queen inside each of us is sovereign.
And for me, that changes everything.
It shifts the story from deserving the beauty in my life to celebrating the beauty in my life.
It flips the need to prove my worth
into the joy of honoring who I am and where I am.
The King and Queen are not small.
Not sorry.
Not apologizing for their vision, their capacity, or their way.
--
It’s not easy to change—but I am opening myself to it.
—-
With love from a recovering hermit, excellent scullery maid, noble king, and wild queen.
PS. I can point to causes both personal and systemic for this neurosis and/or trauma response causing this loop in my behavior—but focusing on the pain of the past is—well—just painful. I truly think the more difficult work is lying down, languidly, in lush greenery and letting beauty bless us from toes to head. Trust me when I tell you—more tears spill on the soft ground this way. And when they stop flowing a flower and a hummingbird are right there celebrating life alongside you.