better late than ugly.

May 31

i intended to be here quite some time ago, y’all— had all of my plans gone the way i had imagined.

and maybe not so much in a literal fashion, as in the actual geographical “here.” but in the esoteric here that feels + smells + tastes + sounds + looks like The abundant harvest that finally comes after years of toiling + sweating + failing to bring fruition to the desires of my heart.

failure has become a close companion. a companion i know all too well.

here is where Art + Love + annie collide into purpose.

. . .

i didn’t move far from where i was. i learned that lesson in ’07-08 when i packed up the tiny beans and moved us across country to northern idaho. fleeing from abuse and absolutely terrified of the unknown, i plunged myself + the cubs even deeper into mystery, hoping to hide us from the danger that sought to destroy what was left of our family.

it all sounds so dramatic now. but it was so real then. so unbelievably terrifying and real.

but running away didn’t fix what was broken.

it simply highlighted how desperately i needed help raising those two beans.

i only lasted 7 months in couer d’alene. seven months of snow + isolation from family and everything that was familiar + comfortable— a colorless season that i often refer to as my desert. gray upon gray upon gray.

if it weren’t for Wyatt + Mick, i would have never survived. i’ll Love you forever, Boys. thankyou.

[wipes tears; i’ve made some amazing friends along the way.]

. . .

but after Dad died last november—

or maybe it was after i was “politely” asked to leave our rental house of 13 years that i was promised to be able to purchase last may—

or maybe it was after Jakob’s wrath became known under assault + battery charges last march—

or maybe it was when the last guy who said he Loved me + wanted to marry me left for the final time the july before that—

…

shoot, y’all.

the story has been pretty brutal for a long time. + there i’ve been, all along— existing in the center of unrelenting storm after storm after storm. sometimes standing strong + holding the bears as close as i could. sometimes bitter + exhausted, screaming into the cyclonic rage my own desperate angst. sometimes curled up in a pathetic + worn-down huddle, depleted of tears + desire to even try.

it’s been a ride, y’all.

. . .

but the baby bear turns 18 whole legal adult years old in less than a month. the first bear will be 20 a few months later.

how in the world am i old enough to have an 18 year old + a 20 year old when i still feel 21?

. . .

i look around at my peers— they mostly have all settled down, made partner choices, and have procreated miniature humans. many have built impressive careers, live in incredible homes, and vacation like celebrities. many others work hard, complain harder, and wish they had anybody else’s Life but their own.

but my Life path boasts a radical syncopation— like i’ve been on a totally different planet approaching this Living thing from a totally different angle.

i’ve never really fit in. + i’m finally okay with the idea that i probably never will.

because ^that’s what breathes Life into the Art. it’s the not-fitting-in that drives me to Create— in relentless attempts to engage with those around me, who speak status quo so entirely eloquently, that there may just be another Way.

. . .

the Art has a new home—

+ it’s more incredible than my dreams have ever dared imagine. an artist’s Loft within walking distance of the Firm. the full Love + support of my family + friends + Loved ones. a bossman who believes in me + is invested in this odd language i speak with paint + style + behavior.

to say that i am Blessed + Highly-Favored is the understatement of a Lifetime. but these words feel like Home. like purpose. like Divine Identity.

. . .

the story is unfolding as magically for me as it is for those following along—

the great adventure of an artist’s Life lived in Faith.

(and let’s face it— shenanigans + a bit of debauchery + even some occasional, good old-fashioned sin.)

although i do not brag of such proclivities— just simply needing to remind us all that they are there. always there.

. . .