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


I had a chance to breathe this weekend. And to play with a lovely group of women at a retreat entitled Breathe in the glorious oak-forested foothills of Montecito, an exclusive enclave near Santa Barbara. The schedule was minimal with lots of free time and relaxing breakout sessions intended to refresh the oh-so-often . . . → Read More: Play


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


Like Forrest Gump I might have said life is a box of chocolates, but at the moment life seems more like a random pile of pieces. Sometimes the pieces are magazine images and words that get combined to tell a story of recovery. Sometimes the pieces are piles of strips or folds of . . . → Read More: Pieces


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

Cracked Up

Jessica totally cracked me up. That kind of ear-to-ear grin, make your heart happy, laugh out loud kind of cracked up. She didn’t mean to. But she did. Because I love how this lady of the Lighthouse dreams big, prays big.

Last week we introduced the ladies at the Lighthouse to . . . → Read More: Cracked Up


Turbulence is a way of life living with addiction in its many forms. Thus sayeth the women at the Lighthouse, a fifteen-month, faith-based residential treatment program for those recovering from substance abuse. Turbulent enough that Nicole suffered a panic attack while drawing a twisted heart surrounded by black spidery figures, her image of . . . → Read More: Turbulence