Three Months in Woodinville

The night before my birthday, I was curled up reading Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert when something nudged me. Just like that, I put the book down, picked up my phone, and googled "painting classes near me."

On a whim, I enrolled in a watercolor class for the following morning at a little studio I had never heard of, in a part of Woodinville I had never explored.

That small, spontaneous moment turned out to be a quiet metaphor for everything the past three months have taught me.

Monahan Studio was nestled in the woods like something out of a storybook. And there inside it was Nicole, a gifted watercolor illustrator, and exactly one student. Me. She guided me as I painted a hummingbird.

As it turns out, hummingbirds are considered messengers of joy. Symbols of resilience, love, and connection to the divine. I went in looking for something to do on my birthday. I came out with something I did not know I needed.

I added a small heart hanging from a golden thread. It was Valentine's Day. And without entirely meaning to, I had painted a reminder of everything I believe about the life we are each here to live.

Here we are at the first weekend of May, and I am preparing to leave Woodinville after three months. I find myself sitting with the question I suspect most of us ask at turning points like this one. What, exactly, did I do with that time?

The honest answer is that I did quite a lot. And also almost nothing. And somehow, both of those things feel true.

I walked countless miles on the Sammamish River Trail and climbed the Tolt Pipeline Trail several times a week, watching the seasons shift in real time, noticing things I had never paid close attention to before. The way buds silently appear on branches. The way the grays and browns of winter become lush greens and vibrant pinks, seemingly overnight.

I filled three journals. Three!

I treated myself to Artist's Dates as part of a 12-week self-study through The Artist's Wayby Julia Cameron, a program I began in the quiet wake of reading Elizabeth Gilbert. I visited art galleries, explored wineries, and got to know some of the locals well enough to feel, eventually, that I belonged somewhere new.

I was spoiled by my best friend with a beautiful birthday party, surrounded by people who love me, and treated to dinner at the legendary Café Juanita by my birthday buddy, which I can only describe as one of the finer evenings of my recent memory.

I got to know a little herd of goats who live on the property next door. They became curious about me, that strange woman who keeps talking to them as if they understand. I can confirm that they do seem to listen.

And then there was Mabel the cat. We had a few early negotiations about who was in charge. I will not say who won.

Something else happened while I was here. I found my way into a group of women called Flourish. I say "found my way" because I never set out to join anything. It simply unfolded. And on the day I attended for the first time, a small note card was placed in my hands. It read, in quiet, unhurried lettersThe past is never as relevant as we think it is.

What I've come to understand, about the women I work with and about myself, is this. We carry our past like luggage we forgot to check at the door. We believe, somewhere underneath everything else we believe, that what has already happened is the truest evidence of what is still possible. That the marriage that ended is the verdict on our worth. That the years behind us narrow the ones still ahead.

And what if that is simply a story? One we inherited, or were handed, or told ourselves so many times it started to feel like a fact.

I spent three months in a town I barely knew, with no fixed plan, no certainty about what came next, and very few familiar anchors. And what unfolded was this. A painting. A group of women. A trail I will miss walking. A cat who is currently running my life. A version of solitude that stopped feeling like absence and started feeling like arrival.

What is coming next is Kingston. It was at the top of my list of places to explore during this nomadic season, and now it is calling. I do not yet know what it will bring.

But I painted a hummingbird on Valentine's Day, added a heart on a golden thread, and walked out of a little studio in the woods carrying something I did not know I had been looking for.

That feels like enough to keep going on.