A few weeks ago, Viola stood by the back door with her little hands pressed against the glass and said, “Oh no, Mommy—the plants are dying.” To her, the browning leaves felt like a small heartbreak. To me, it was the quiet shift into a new season. I told her, “They’ll come back next year.” And the way her body softened into that answer stayed with me. There was something in that moment—how quickly things change, how easily beauty slips by if you’re not paying attention—that made me think about my own pace this year. How often I’ve reached for slowness, or felt myself wanting to hold onto the fleeting things just a little longer.

That’s part of why I chose pause as my word for the year. I wanted more space to notice what I’m usually rushing past. From the outside, my days didn’t always look slow, but internally, I stepped back from a lot of good things so I could protect the pockets of stillness I need—both for myself and for my family. That desire for a gentler rhythm naturally found its way into my artwork. After last year’s Dreaming in the Wild collection, I kept thinking about the quieter work I’d begun in the Wild Garden series—the way I centered one bloom and let everything else relate to it. I loved that focus, but I didn’t have room this year for large pieces or long studio days. I needed something I could return to in small moments and still feel connected to.

That’s how the Golden Halo collection began. A soft return to the butterfly studies I started years ago, and a chance to bring back metallic paints in a way that draws the eye toward the tiniest, most beautiful details. Working this way gave me permission to honor one bloom or one creature at a time. To sit with it, study it, and let that be enough. Each piece felt like an invitation to slow down and really see what was right in front of me. The more I painted, the more I realized how different everything feels when I match my pace to nature instead of the noise around me. There’s a groundedness in it—a settling. I’m not rushing ahead or replaying yesterday. I’m simply here, letting the moment be what it is. It’s meditative in a way I didn’t realize I’d been missing. My hope is that this collection offers even a small touch of that feeling—a place to rest your eyes, breathe, and reconnect with a rhythm that feels like your own.

What Slow Art Means to Me

I practiced “slow art” long before I ever called it that. It wasn’t a method—it was a feeling. A shift in how I paid attention. A gentler way of moving through the world. For me, slow art isn’t really about the speed of the work. It’s about the way I approach it: with presence, curiosity, and a willingness to really see. When I sit down with a botanical subject, something in me settles. My mind quiets. I’m studying the curve of a stem, the glow along a petal’s edge, the places where color shifts almost imperceptibly. It pulls me out of my head and into my hands.

Watercolor reinforces that rhythm. It won’t be rushed. It has its own timing and its own sense of boundaries. If I move too quickly, the whole piece loses clarity. So I follow the paint—layer by layer, wash by wash—until the subject comes forward. And then there’s that moment when the painting tells me it’s done. That part always feels true to life: you show up, you stay present, and then you rest.

There’s a spiritual thread in this for me, too. When I study something in nature up close, I can’t help but see God in it—the intricacy, the variety, the uniqueness of every bloom and creature. Painting becomes a quiet way of expressing gratitude for the abundance provided in nature and the gift of life itself.

Even in the busiest weeks, I feel that same grounding. When I painted the last five minis of this collection—all in one week—I actually slowed down more. I didn’t want it to end. I gave each piece the attention it deserved, trusting that the time I poured in would become part of the work itself. In the end, that’s what slow art is to me: discovery. Something ordinary becomes extraordinary simply because you paused long enough to notice.

The Stories Nature Tells (If You Slow Down Enough to Notice)

Painting across the seasons has taught me to notice the small shifts—the tiny markers of time that get louder as I get older. The more I slow down, the more these little changes feel like their own unfolding story. One of my favorites is a purple bush in our yard that blooms in late summer. For a couple of weeks, it’s covered in delicate moths—hundreds of them. My daughters run straight to it when we get home, cupping the moths in their hands before letting them go. It’s magical, and it’s fleeting. When the moths disappear, I know fall is coming—my favorite season and the hardest one to say goodbye to.

Winter has its own quiet beauty. The first frost always stops me: frozen blooms catching the morning light, dried thistle standing like sculptures. Even in the coldest months, there’s so much worth noticing. And in spring, the violets return and turn our lawn purple. They appeared the same year we found out we were having Viola, and now I can’t see them without thinking of her. They’re brief, but meaningful—like so much of nature’s timing.

Then there are the surprises: the wild geranium I found on a native plant walk, the “flower of an hour” that showed up in my vegetable garden, the monarch caterpillars my sister brings us each summer. Each one gives me a reason to pause and look closer.

Most of these moments come alive because of my girls. Seeing the world through their eyes brings back the wonder I felt as a child—lingering over lilacs in my mom’s yard, breathing in their scent, memorizing the softness of the petals. Now, when they ask, “Where did the moths go?” or “When will the violets come back?” my answer is always the same: “Next year.” There’s something tender about that—its reminder that these moments aren’t guaranteed.

Maybe that’s why I paint them. To honor what’s here, while it’s here.

The Meaning We Find in Botanicals

As I’ve begun to really appreciate the pace and rhythm of nature, I’ve also become more aware of how deeply plants nourish us—not just creatively and emotionally, but physically, too. The more I study them, the more fascinated I become. When you start learning about the healing properties of plants—how rosemary can help with focus, how dandelion root supports inflammation, how certain flowers uplift mood—it adds another layer of meaning to the work. I’m not painting something simply because it’s beautiful. I’m painting something that has purpose, history, memory, usefulness. Studying plants becomes a form of discovery that keeps deepening over time for me. 

And then there’s the nostalgia. Flowers have this way of bringing us back to specific people or seasons of life. I hear it often: “This reminds me of my grandmother.” “This feels like my childhood backyard.” A scent, a color, the shape of a petal—all of it can open something inside us. Botanical art becomes a way of reconnecting with moments we thought we’d forgotten, or feelings we haven’t visited in a long time. That’s part of why I paint botanicals all year. There’s always something new to notice, something fleeting to marvel at, something meaningful to honor while it’s here. 

An Invitation to Slow Down

If you’re reading this and feeling a tug toward a slower, more intentional pace, here’s the good news: you don’t need a paintbrush to experience slow art. You can start by stepping outside for a moment and noticing what draws you in—a bloom, a color, a shift in light. Pay attention to what you enjoy most, and let that be your doorway into presence.

When someone brings a piece into their home, my hope is that it offers that exact kind of quiet moment of discovery—the same kind of “little magic” I feel when I stumble across something beautiful in nature. I can’t take credit for the beauty itself; that belongs to the natural world. But I love being the person who pauses long enough to notice it, study it, and offer it back through my work. My hope is that you too find something in your own life that helps you slow down, take a breath, and notice the everyday magic around you.