On Rainstorms and Renewal

Reflections on the Outpour Collection

The Outpour Collection, so far.

May brought about a new sort of heaviness last year.

And I’d tucked it away beneath the dirt, much like the potatoes in the garden that I forgot to harvest last summer amidst the chaos. But late springs storms are rolling in, and it’s been washed right back up to the surface.

At the end of May last year, I found myself stuck in the hospital for the first time in my life. What I thought was a mild illness I could work right through, had quickly turned into what the doctors informed me was sepsis (now that was a terrifying google search). Fortunately, it had been caught quickly—thanks to my persistent husband who recognized that something deeper was wrong and insisted we go in. I didn’t realize how much pain I was in until it finally stopped. After tons of scans, tests, a relatively mild procedure, plenty of embarrassment, and a few days of IV antibiotics, I was back home. (I feel like I owe every hospital staff member I met a painted leaf—they were absolutely incredible!)

What followed was a frustratingly slow recovery. I wanted to get right back into my work (I was halfway through the Ode to Trees Collection at the time), and running, and gardening, and all the other little routines I’ve come to hold as precious. But I suddenly found myself too weak to wash my hair, let alone walk upstairs to the studio. So slowly, I did what I could. At first, I spent most of my time reading in the garden, trying to ignore how overgrown it became without my intervention. Soon, I was painting again, and catching up on orders with my husband’s help. We went for walks that got a bit longer each time, and started reining in our jungle of a garden. By August, I was back to a slower version of my normal routine and studio practice.

"Soft Returning," the (fittingly named) first painting I completed after finally getting back in the studio.

But something else happened as I returned to life that summer. The mornings spent painting, the afternoons spent reading in the sun, the nature walks with my husband, family gatherings, and my little garden—it all started to become a bit more precious to me. It felt like the world after the storm ends and sun returns, with the colors becoming deeper and richer than they were before. My own storm seemed to wash away the dust and distractions from my life, leaving my sense of wonder shining a bit brighter in its wake.

It took well into winter of last year, but I can finally say I’m back to feeling like myself. And while slower, I’m even back to running! Both in nature and in life, I’m beginning to see storms not just as something to be endured, but as a gift of newness. Our summers are made more lush by the heavy rains of late spring. Our lives are made more precious, our gratitude deeper, and our happy days brighter, by the washing that the storms of this life bring.

A selection of paintings from the Outpour Collection. You can view the full collection here.

So this May, I’m celebrating rainstorms with the Outpour Collection. And as the anniversary of my own storm passes, I’m relishing in all the goodness that has come since those bed-bound days. I'm holding a bit of extra gratitude for you, too. When I took that vaguely explained break last year, y'all met me with nothing but patience and wishes for healing. It was yet another reminder of what a gift this community is to my life as well as my art. I cannot thank you enough.

I hope that next time you find yourself enduring the heaviest rain and loudest thunder, you are also greeted with the richest color and brightest sunlight at its passing.

"Sky Splitter," painted on a preserved tulip tree leaf.