A recent talk I heard entitled Cinderella Revisited inspired last week’s art activity at the Lighthouse, a twelve-month, faith-based residential treatment program for women recovering from substance abuse. The essence of the message was that Cinderella was dead in the enslaved environment of her life with a wicked step-mother and two ugly sisters . . . → Read More: Cinderella

Anger Sort Of

Sometimes I set up an art activity and everything goes as planned. Other times? Not so much. That happened last Friday at the weekly therapeutic art workshop at the Lighthouse, a twelve-month, faith-based, residential treatment program for women recovering from substance abuse. The group of women currently in the program is largely new . . . → Read More: Anger Sort Of


Raw emotions. Red for ANGER. Green for ENVY. Great black looping CONFUSION. Periodic EXPLOSIONS. That’s the mask Ashley describes wearing because she believes expressing her anger is a stronger position than crying although her tears are just beneath the surface. She knows that needs to change….in a safe place…in a safe way…at a . . . → Read More: Raw


Nobody had a problem drawing the first picture – what their anger looked like in the past. Everyone could remember their version of bottled poisonous rage that eventually exploded all over the place. But I think they were more than a little surprised when I shared with them what I imagined doing with . . . → Read More: Anger

The Pits

Last Friday was the pits. Not exactly the kind of pit you might imagine. The ladies at the Lighthouse, a fifteen-month, faith-based residential treatment program for substance abuse, were creating their own personal collaged pits using Chinese food take-out boxes. Words and images illustrated the painful pits they’d fallen into as a result . . . → Read More: The Pits


Over the last twenty years I’ve learned that art-making combined with writing is an efficient way for me to process the “memorable” moments of life – those moments that are so impactful that it takes some intentional time to integrate them into my soul. Frankly, I stumbled into this fast, fun, cheap form . . . → Read More: Box


Oy veh was the short text message I sent my art partner when she asked how the morning had gone at the Lighthouse. Struggling with a bad back, she opted out of our Friday therapeutic art workshop because of a chiropractor appointment. While sorry for her suffering I knew she’d probably be relieved . . . → Read More: Faces


Frankly, I don’t very often start a voice mail message with the phrase “This is an emergency.” But that was the message I left on Pastor Erin’s cell phone after discovering my van had been towed from the parking lot behind the lovely boutique hotel where my hosts had lodged me the prior . . . → Read More: Rescue


I know nothing. At least that’s what Sgt Schultz used to insist on Hogan’s Heroes in the olden days. His I-see-no-evil comment was usually in response to the POWs latest shenanigans. My not knowing was more the result of a quiet mind, the gift of hours traveling through the colorful emptiness of autumn’s . . . → Read More: Nothing

No Complaint

Five, ten, fifteen minutes. No grousing. No whining. No complaints. Whatsup? I’ve NEVER not had someone begin to complain about the glue not setting up, or pieces of a broken pot falling apart during the highly metaphoric “Broken Pot” art project I’ve been doing for over twenty-five years. The dining/art room was full . . . → Read More: No Complaint