I notice this rhythm most clearly around living things.
Horses standing motionless beneath trees in afternoon heat.
Plants turning slowly toward light through a window.
The way the body softens near water, shade, or open land.
Nature rarely forces restoration.
It invites it gradually.
This summer, a new painting series began with a little girl standing beside a bicycle that was just a bit too big for her. My husband and I spotted her one evening while driving through our neighborhood—stretching onto her tiptoes, shoulders lifted toward the handlebars, unable to quite reach the ground with confidence. "You'll grow into it," is a phrase most of us hear as children, but as I watched her balancing between excitement and uncertainty, I realized how often that lesson follows us throughout our lives. The Wheels of Time series explores those childhood moments we think we've left behind, only to discover them again and again in adulthood. Learning to trust ourselves before we feel ready. Taking on responsibilities that feel larger than our abilities. Finding balance after a fall. Growing into new versions of ourselves. Set against the backdrop of long summer days, bicycles become symbols of movement, independence, and the courage required to keep going. These paintings honor the reality that growth rarely happens when we feel fully prepared—it happens while we're reaching, wobbling, stretching, and discovering that we were capable all along.
by midday in July, everything feels different. The morning energy has burned off. The sun sits higher. The air feels heavier. Even the plants in the garden seem to pause. Yet most of us continue pushing forward as though we're separate from the season around us. This is my favorite time to step away for a few minutes and listen to one of my guided meditations—not because I'm trying to escape the day, but because I want to return to it. Five minutes is often enough. Enough to notice the tension in my shoulders. Enough to recognize that I've been solving problems three conversations ahead instead of paying attention to the one I'm in. Enough to remember that the person experiencing life is more important than the endless list of things she hopes to accomplish. The older I get, the more I realize restoration isn't something reserved for vacations or weekends. It happens in ordinary moments, tucked into the middle of an ordinary day.
Perhaps restoration was never meant to feel dramatic.
Perhaps it was always meant to look like sunlight on the floor,
cold water on warm skin,
living spaces filled with growing things,
and moments that allow the body to remember itself again.
All imagery photographed by Joni Ella unless otherwise noted.
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