The Cracked Cup: Holding Loss with Reverence

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This week, as floods have devastated parts of Texas, I have felt a deep ache settle in my chest. So many lives lost—families shattered, futures rewritten in a single rising tide. There is no mending of such losses, only the sacred act of holding space for them.

It was with this sorrow that I turned to The Cracked Cup, one of the first cards I created  in the Enso Oracle deck. The cup, once whole, now bears a fracture that cannot be hidden. Yet it still holds meaning, still carries essence. A cracked vessel is a reminder that something precious was once contained, and though altered, its story is not erased.

Loss connects us. Not because we can understand it fully—but because we recognize its shape. We have all carried our own cracked cups, fragile with memory and longing. And when we witness loss in others—especially such heartbreaking, public loss—we may feel helpless. But if we acknowledge it, if we name it, if we allow it to soften us rather than harden us, then something sacred can begin to form.

Grief shared is grief witnessed. In honoring the cracks, we honor the love that came before them.

The Cracked Cup

Keywords: Imperfection, Vulnerability, Beauty in the Broken, Holding What You Can

Guidebook Entry:
The Cracked Cup appears when life has etched its story into your form. In the upright position, it honors the quiet resilience of holding, even with a fracture. You are still a vessel, capable of offering and receiving, though shaped now by experience. The crack is not your failure—it is your history, your refinement. Like kintsugi, where gold fills the fault line, your beauty is revealed in the break. This card invites you to celebrate what remains and flows, rather than what was lost.

Reversed Meaning:
Reversed, the Cracked Cup may signal that you’re trying to pour from what no longer holds. You might be ignoring signs of depletion, overextending despite inner fractures. There may be grief you’ve hidden in plain sight, or a perfectionism that keeps you from offering anything at all. This card urges rest, repair, and self-compassion. It’s okay to set yourself down for a while.

Reflection Questions:

  • What am I still trying to hold that might be leaking away?
  • Where can I find grace in my imperfections?
  • Am I trying to serve others without tending to my own mending?

Affirmation:
Even with a crack, I remain a vessel. I hold beauty, truth, and healing within my imperfect form.

_____________________

In the wake of deep loss, there are no easy words. The grief sits heavy, as it should.

And yet, as artists, we often turn to our work to hold what cannot be spoken. We make marks, tear paper, mend fragments—because our hands need to do something with the sorrow.

Artists can bring gold to the broken.

The old practice in Japan called Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold, doesn’t hide the cracks, but honors them. It does not undo the break. Like The Cracked Cup, it simply says: this mattered, this was loved, this was lost—and it still holds beauty.

When our artwork feels broken, we can follow this same impulse—to mend with grace, to let the light in through the cracks.

Here are five little ways artists can add a touch of gold to their broken places – almost as a metaphor.

1. Gold Leaf or Metallic Wax on Cracks or Seams
Highlight repaired tears, joins, or fractures with gold leaf or metallic wax. Instead of concealing damage, this elevates it—visibly celebrating the healing process and transformation. Even in collages or fiber works, adding a subtle gilded line over a seam can evoke this reverent beauty. Book Foil makes wonderful lines over a wax surface – I use this often.

2. Thread or Wire Mending
Use gold or brass wire or gold embroidery thread to literally bind pieces together. Whether it’s torn paper, fabric, or broken sculptural elements, the physical act of mending with golden thread becomes a ritual of restoration and reverence. My friend Flo Bartell just emailed me this morning about using a gold wire for knitting, to communicate a delicate permanence. Perhaps we are all needing a bit of gold as shining metaphor.

3. Symbolic Gold Marks
Paint or draw golden lines, halos, or marks over areas that feel unresolved or damaged. These can represent scars or epiphanies—places where the work “broke open” and something new emerged. Think of them as visual blessings for the broken spaces. Use a gold Sharpie or paint pen for some asemic writing on unresolved work.

4. Incorporating Found Golden Objects
Embed small gold-tone found objects—buttons, charms, keys, or jewelry fragments—into your artwork where pieces feel lost or incomplete. These additions can be talismans of memory, resilience, and beauty born from imperfection.

5. Transforming Damage into Focal Points
If part of a piece is damaged, emphasize that area with a glowing, gold-infused feature—like a golden portal, sunburst, or frame. This approach not only restores but transforms what was broken into the heart of the piece’s meaning.

In the quiet aftermath of loss, The Cracked Cup reminds us that even when something breaks, it still has purpose—maybe even more than before. Like the golden seams in a kintsugi vessel, the work we do to mend our hearts can become part of the beauty we share.
If you are an artist, know this: your creative practice is a balm, a beacon. Keep making. Keep tending to your art as an offering—not just for yourself, but for the community that surrounds you.
And please, take care of yourself and those you love. Be gentle with your days. Hold your own cracked cup with tenderness, and let your light shine through the places that have been broken open.
♥Lyn
Previous Oracle Cards:

THE SHINY OBJECT

THE HUMP

THE WANDERER

The Shared Spark: Morphic Resonance and Creative Synchronicity

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Rupert Sheldrake, English biologist, biochemist, and author

One of my all-time favorite books is The Rebirth of Nature: The Greening of Science and God, by Rupert Sheldrake. It inspired this week’s Enso Oracle card, The Shared Spark.

Sheldrake’s theory of morphic resonance proposes that memory and habits are not stored only in brains or genes, but rather in collective fields called morphic fields. These fields carry information across time and space, influencing patterns of behavior and form. According to this idea, once something is learned or created, it becomes easier for others to learn or create something similar—not by imitation, but by tapping into a shared field of information.

This theory helps explain the uncanny phenomenon where two writers, artists, or inventors—working separately and unaware of each other—can arrive at the same idea simultaneously. They may be tuning into the same morphic field, where certain creative patterns or insights are “in the air,” accessible to anyone open to them. In this way, creativity may be less about ownership and more about resonance.

In her book Big Magic (another favorite), Elizabeth Gilbert recounts beginning a novel set in the Amazon rainforest—she was passionate about it, got a publishing deal, did deep research… then life pulled her away. After nearly two years, when she tried to return, the inspiration was gone. Then she met Ann Patchett, who revealed that she was writing a strikingly similar novel, also set in the Amazon—with no awareness of Elizabeth’s project. The idea… “migrated” to the mind of her friend and fellow writer, Patchett, where it grew into that author’s bestselling novel set in the Amazon jungle, State of Wonder.

Think about this : What if the creative idea that arrives unbidden—just as someone else is working on the same thing—comes not from your mind alone, but from a deeper field we all share? Jung called it the collective unconscious, a psychic ocean of universal symbols (archetypes) and instincts. Rupert Sheldrake, in The Rebirth of Nature, offers a complementary vision: that ideas and forms can resonate across individuals through invisible morphic fields.

The Shared Spark oracle card lives at the intersection of these two ideas—a visual embodiment of the moment when something ancient and collective sparks simultaneously in two separate souls.

The Shared Spark
aka The Echo Field

Keywords: Synchronicity, resonance, collective insight, unseen connection, simultaneous inspiration

Meaning:
When The Shared Spark appears, it reminds you that ideas do not exist in isolation. You are tapping into something larger—a morphic field of thought, memory, and form that transcends location and time. Whether you’re mid-project or just beginning, this card affirms that what you’re creating is part of a greater, invisible dialogue. Others may be receiving similar sparks right now—not because of imitation, but because you are attuned to the same current. Celebrate the wonder of this resonance. It means you’re exactly where you need to be.

In a reversed position, The Shared Spark invites you to release possessiveness or fear that someone else “got there first.” Comparison and self-doubt can cloud your unique contribution. Remember, even if the concept is shared, your expression is singular. Trust that your voice brings something irreplaceable to the field.

Reflection Questions:

  • Where have I experienced a creative idea that felt strangely universal?
  • How can I honor synchronicity without falling into comparison?
  • What unique perspective do I bring to a commonly held insight?

Affirmation:
“I am part of a greater field of vision. What moves through me is shared, but never duplicated.”

MORE ABOUT THIS

I had a note about this very subject last week from my friend and fellow artist and writer, Melanie Childress Reuter whose Made for Grace Arts lives on Substack. She wrote, “When you see my post on Sunday which I wrote nearly two weeks ago, you will wonder how in the world our brains got intertwined. My piece starts out with a story of a lady who keeps going to Michaels to buy supplies for the next latest/greatest. I promise I’m not copying you – lol!!!” Melanie is a master of practical spirituality – you’ll enjoy what she writes.

She referenced both my recent Oracle cards, The Shiny Object and The Hump. We’ve all experienced these things – that’s why these Enso Oracle cards are such a joy to invent. They are based on our real and messy and exhilarating and never-enough-time creative lives.

The Shape of What We Hold

Lately, as you may know, I’ve found myself deeply drawn to the form of the vessel—small boats, pods, bowls, bundles. And I’m not alone. In recent months, I’ve noticed artists, writers, and makers across disciplines turning toward vessels as symbols and structures—sometimes consciously, often intuitively. It’s as if the world is asking us to hold, carry, and contain something tender, transitional, and vital.

According to Rupert Sheldrake, this is no coincidence. When a form or idea begins to emerge in multiple places at once, it may be a sign of morphic resonance in motion—a shared energetic field where meaning is coalescing and transmitting itself through the minds and hands of many. Perhaps the vessel is not just a form, but a frequency.

Why now? Maybe because we are navigating uncertain waters, and the act of making a vessel—literal or symbolic—is a way of reclaiming our ability to gather, protect, and offer. It’s not just about what the vessel is. It’s about what it makes space for.

Which brings me to something I’m especially excited about:

My new online course, Vessels and Spirit Ships, will launch in just a few days on my Teachable site. This project has been in the works for nearly a year, and it’s full of all the things I’ve been exploring—wax, thread, paper, memory, metaphor, and mystery. If The Shared Spark speaks to you, I think this class will too.

Stay tuned. The tide is rising.

PS. If you’d like to take a look at Rupert Sheldrake’s book, The Rebirth of Nature: The Greening of Science and God, you can find it here on Google Books.

What’s that?? A shiny object????

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We are previewing my in-progress series of Enso Oracle Cards this month, each card based on real issues from real artists in The Enso Circle.  We’ve already looked at The Wanderer and The Hump. More about The Hump later in this post.

Today’s Enso Oracle Card is all too familiar to me. It’s called The Shiny Object. It shows up when I’m knee-deep in unfinished projects, surrounded by half-torn mulberry paper and unanswered emails, and I still think, “Ooh, I need to check out that new cold wax thingy that’s water soluble – ” and off I go to Pinterest or YouTube to “research.”

The reversed Shiny Object is that moment when inspiration turns into avoidance — when curiosity becomes the perfect excuse not to finish anything at all. It’s not judging me (okay, maybe just a little), but it does nudge me to ask: Am I exploring something new… or running away from the work that’s calling me? Sometimes, the most courageous act in the studio is simply returning to what we already started.

So here’s this week’s Oracle Card:

THE SHINY OBJECT ENSO ORACLE CARD

aka The Rabbit Hole
Keywords: distraction, novelty, curiosity, temptation, redirection

A clever crow perches atop a cluttered studio table, its beady eye fixed on a sparkling bauble outside the window. Around it, the half-hidden remnants of abandoned projects and tantalizing tools—paint tubes, half-sculpted clay, unwrapped pastels, a digital stylus, rusted wire, wax pots—whisper promises of possibility. This card reflects the lure of the new and the irresistible pull of novelty.

Upright, The Shiny Object invites you to examine whether your current fascinations are playful expansions—or diversions from deeper work. You may be called to explore something new, but be mindful: every “yes” to something glittering may be a “no” to something important. Choose with intention, not impulse.

Reversed, this card can reveal stagnation disguised as commitment. You may be clinging too tightly to one medium or routine out of fear of getting lost again. Remember that the joy of experimentation doesn’t always equal distraction. Sometimes, chasing a sparkle leads to unexpected treasure—if your feet stay grounded.

Reflection Questions:

  • What am I reaching for right now, and why?
  • Am I nourishing my creative center or avoiding something deeper?
  • Where do I need more discernment—or more freedom?

Affirmation:
I honor my curiosity, but I choose where to land. I can explore without losing my way.

_______________________________________________________

Confession: I chased a few Shiny Objects last week while I struggled with The Hump,  trying in vain to figure out my Altar for Celebration Circle. I knew what I wanted – it was going to be called Georgia’s Dream, a tribute to the legendary painter.

It started out great – I figured out how to attach a deer skull securely to the wooden altar structure. And then I found the perfect photo of Georgia O’Keeffe to use as my encaustic icon portrait. And then The Hump appeared. I was stuck.

The Hump stage:

It took three days and a few rabbit holes to give me the breathing room to get back to the Georgia’s Dream Altar. And then it just came together! Sometimes we need blocks and distractions to force us to look away so that we can come back with fresh eyes.

Here’s the story of Georgia’s Dream:

Georgia’s Dream
Assemblage by Lyn Belisle

In this poignant mixed media assemblage, artist Lyn Belisle constructs a shrine-like portal into the inner dreamscape of Georgia O’Keeffe during her later years at Abiquiú. Central to the piece is the bleached skull of a deer, crowned with delicate flowers and flanked by rusted metal leaves—symbols of both decay and transcendence. A turquoise cross rises behind it, evoking the spiritual landscape of the American Southwest and the sacred geometry of personal myth.

Beneath the skull rests an image of O’Keeffe herself, serene and centered, set into an aged niche like an icon. It is not merely a portrait—it is a mirror of longing and continuity. Below, a brush, thread, and turquoise fragments suggest the tools of her artistic and spiritual communion. The word “MILAGRO” etched along the base speaks to the miraculous transformation at the heart of the dream.

Georgia’s Dream imagines an ethereal journey: an aged O’Keeffe, her physical body frail, dreams of slipping into the spirit of a deer—fleet, luminous, unbound. In this dream, she races across the high desert mesas she once painted with such reverence, becoming part of the land once more. The assemblage becomes not just a tribute, but a vessel of metamorphosis—where memory, myth, and matter blur.

I’ll be back next week with a new card – see you then!!

 

Summer and The Hump

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I’m introducing some in-progress Enso Oracle Cards in the next few SHARDS posts – they were inspired by real artists’ questions during the recent Enso Circle term. The first card was called The Wanderer. Now, let me introduce The Hump.

Summer often begin with bright intentions—time to rest, to create, to wander freely. But what happens when the glow dims, when the initial momentum gives way to resistance? That’s when The Hump appears. It’s the midpoint lull in any meaningful journey—the part we don’t post about, the part that feels more like dragging than dancing.

This card’s inspiration came directly from an Enso Circle Resident who said, “I just cannot get over the hump! I’m stuck!”

But in the language of the Enso Oracle, The Hump is not a detour. It’s the work. It’s the quiet test of staying with what matters, even when the spark flickers.

What does The Hump look like to you – and how to you get over, around, or through it?

The Hump

Keywords: Resistance · Frustration · Commitment Fear · Creative Block

Card Meaning:
You’ve hit the hump. That awkward, sticky middle place in the creative process where momentum falters, where every step feels heavy, where the doubt grows louder than the spark that started it all. This card reminds you that The Hump is not a failure—it’s a rite of passage.

It often shows up when you’re approaching something meaningful. When finishing means committing. When stepping forward means risk. Fear of being wrong, of wasting effort, of seeing your vision fall short—it all gathers here.

But the Hump exists because you are moving forward. It rises only on a path being traveled.

Message:
Don’t turn back. Don’t wait for the hump to disappear. Go over it—awkwardly, imperfectly, even angrily if you must. This resistance is not the end; it’s the proving ground. What lies beyond is flow, clarity, and renewed vision.

If drawn in a reading:

  • You are closer than you think.
  • What feels like a block may be a threshold.
  • Name your fear and keep going anyway.
  • The only way through is through.

Reversed:
You may be avoiding the very task that could bring resolution. Be honest: are you afraid of what success or commitment might demand? Give the hump a name, and you’ll take away its power.

For example, your Hump’s name could be:

  • Lawnchair

  • Wet Sock

  • Dust Bunny

  • Refrigerator Light

  • Banana Peel

  • OR? _____________________

But the point is to acknowledge it (“Hi, stupid Hump”) and deal with it as part of the process. It’ll make you stronger!

Speaking of The Enso Circle Residents, they’ve just completed their Exhibition Catalog which is a wonderful reflection of their 12-weeks journey working toward a chosen goal. Want to take a look? 

Click Here!

Here’s to getting over (or around) The Hump!!

Deep Play and The Wanderer

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The Enso Circle tenth term is over, and now I’m spending some time with Diane Ackerman’s wonderful book called Deep Play.

I’m also going back through the conversations from Enso Circle Residents to see what artists question and explore as part of their daily studio practice – these authentic topics have inspired my baby steps into creating the Enso Oracle Cards.

So this summer, I’m inviting you to join me on a kind of creative sabbatical—guided by Diane Ackerman’s idea of deep play—a season to step outside the ordinary, explore the edges of intuition, and discover new insights through a weekly oracle card drawn from the evolving Enso Oracle Deck.

We begin, fittingly, with The Wanderer—a gentle companion and brave seeker who reminds us that the path unfolds as we walk it, and that play, curiosity, and trust are sacred tools for the journey.

I’m drawing this card for YOU! I hope it fits! Read the description and see what insights, even the reversed ones, let you step outside the ordinary and play. Happy Summer!!

The Wanderer

Keywords: Seeking, openness, transition, soulful drift

Interpretation:
The Wanderer walks with questions, not answers. This card speaks of a sacred in-between — a space of movement without final destination, a path lit not by certainty but by curiosity and trust. When The Wanderer appears, you are being invited to loosen your grip on outcomes and walk in presence. This is not aimlessness — it is attunement to what is becoming.

In its upright presence, The Wanderer blesses exploration, growth, and the courage to follow intuition without needing the full map. You are not lost — you are listening. You are letting the path shape you.

Reversed, this card may reflect resistance to change, fear of letting go, or the desire to force clarity where only openness will do. The Wanderer reversed reminds you that stillness can also be a kind of journey — and that wandering is not the same as drifting away from yourself.

Reflection Questions:

  • What am I being called to explore without needing to control the outcome?
  • Where have I mistaken stillness for stagnation — or movement for purpose?
  • Can I trust that the path is unfolding even when I cannot yet name it?

Affirmation:
I walk in wonder, guided by trust and open to becoming.

Ink & Wax: The Art of Sumi-e and Encaustic Fusion

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Oh boy!! My Painting With Fire Lesson came out today!

It’s really a mini-lesson, but the whole point of the ancient Japanese Sumi-e technique is its simplicity.

It’s a mystery to me why I never thought to combine Sumi-e painting with encaustic layering before because they are natural partners.

Here is the class description:

“Experience the harmony of two ancient artistic traditions in this hands-on mini-workshop for Painting with Fire, blending the fluid elegance of Sumi-e painting with the luminous depth of encaustic wax. In the first phase, participants will learn the meditative brush techniques of Sumi-e, painting expressive bamboo and leaves with India ink on paper. Then, in the second phase, we will transform our paintings with encaustic medium, adding layers of translucent wax, incised details, walnut ink washes, delicate patches of gold leaf, and a final red “chop” for a signature touch. This fusion of ink and wax creates an ethereal, textural effect that enhances both the spontaneity of brushwork and the richness of layered surfaces. No prior experience in Sumi-e or encaustic is necessary—just a spirit of exploration!”

One of the things I like about Sumi-e painting is the meditative approach that helps me slow down and quiet my overactive brain as I practice the simple bamboo and leaf strokes like a visual chant. The practice sheets themselves become a record of time, plus you can use them later in collages!

Once you are ready, the brushstrokes combine to form a complete “thought” about the stillness of the natural world.

And as I have just discovered, Sumi-e painting and encaustic are natural partners in expression, each rooted in ancient traditions that honor simplicity, patience, and the beauty of imperfection.

This PWF lesson was a delight to create. It comes in Week Six of the Painting With Fire year of encaustic exploration, and you can still join and have lifetime access to all the lessons created by many amazing encaustic teachers. I have another lesson coming up in November called “Synthography and Wax.”

HOWEVER – even if you are not one bit interested in encaustic, you can completely immerse yourself in the delightful practice of Sumi-e painting. I have a free lesson on Teachable called Sumi-e Painting: Simplicity and Serenity.

I encourage you to try it. As I said, it’s free. The slow, deliberate movements of the brush, the attention to empty space, and the surrender to imperfection invite a sense of calm and clarity. Sumi-e teaches us to be present, to let go of excess, and to trust that a single stroke can hold deep meaning. For artists feeling overwhelmed or disconnected, it offers a quiet refuge.

I’ll leave you with this from the Sumi-e painting site:

The Way of the Brush

Let’s see for example what happens when we want to paint bamboo with the sumi-e method: you sit down (but can also stand) with your back straight, you put a sheet of paper in front of you and concentrate on it, breathing calmly and naturally. You let all other thoughts fade until only a white sheet of paper remains in your mind. Next, you let the image to be painted appear to your mind. In order to paint the bamboo, you must feel its “consistency”, see its trunk, its branches, feel its light leaves stirred by a breeze or wind or wet, heavy with rain.

Your spirit is full of this and more; it becomes the bamboo, it is indescribable.

 

Bird by Bird, Step by Step

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Somewhere between planning for the Ireland workshop , editing my vessel-building video, preparing for a fall neo-santos class in Taos, and working toward a major four-person exhibition there in February 2026, I caught myself staring at the wall, paralyzed—not with lack of inspiration, but with too much of it.

It’s all good. But. Too many irons in the fire. Too many deadlines, ideas, and “just one more thing” lists. And then I remembered Anne Lamott’s wise, warm advice from Bird by Bird. It’s my favorite ever book on writing and creativity.

Her brother, overwhelmed by a massive school report on birds, sat frozen at the kitchen table. Their father told him, “Just take it bird by bird, buddy. Bird by bird.”

That phrase has become a lifeline.

When your artistic life feels like a wildfire of overlapping projects, or a loud chorus of too many ideas that you really want to try, the answer isn’t to douse the flame—it’s to focus on one small, manageable ember at a time.

One vessel. One section of the video. One set of supplies to pack. One mess at a time.

Outside Mess – the Rust Pile

Anne Lamott reminds us that it’s okay to start messy. That a “shitty first draft” is still a beginning. For artists, that might look like a rough sketch, an experimental glaze, or 20 minutes in the studio moving things around until something clicks.

Inside Mess

We may have heard this before, but it is eternally relevant to all of us—artists, writers, makers, dreamers—anyone facing a mountain of creative intention and wondering where to begin.

So today, I’m reminding myself to take it bird by bird. Not exhibition by exhibition or continent by continent. Just one clay figure. One image. One class prep file. And trust that the path will form under my feet, as it always does, step by tiny step.

Lately, I’ve been using the Merlin app to identify the birds I hear outside on my morning walks. It listens, patiently, and tells me, “That’s a Carolina wren… now a mockingbird.” One bird at a time. That feels like the most gentle and poetic kind of reminder.

Carolina Wren – photo from CornellLab

This morning, the first bird I heard was a Carolina wren. Bright, insistent, full of song. It felt like a sign.

Maybe art is the same. You don’t need to name the whole chorus. Just listen for the one song calling you right now. One bird.

BUT WHICH BIRD COMES FIRST??

Once we accept we can’t do it all at once, the question becomes: which bird do I start with?

Here are a few ways I’m learning to decide:

The Loudest Bird
The one with a deadline or a time-sensitive need. Sometimes you have to answer the squawking first—travel bookings, material orders, or a class outline.(For me, this is getting my Ireland ducks in a row – speaking of birds.)

The Most Fragile Bird
This might be a quiet idea, a piece of inner work, or a soulful art project that could be lost if neglected. Tend to what feels precious and easily forgotten. (This is the bird I’m paying attention to this morning).

The Bird That Frees the Others
It could be a small task that clears mental clutter—like organizing files or answering that email you’ve been avoiding. Finishing this can unlock energy for everything else.

The Bird That Sings to You
If you’re feeling burned out, start with the thing that sparks joy. Let one moment of delight carry you into motion.

In the end, the “right” bird is the one you notice—and respond to—with care.

I recommend both the book, Bird by Bird, and the Merlin app (which is free). Take a deep breath – quiet your thoughts, and listen. There’s a bird out there calling your name. Just begin.♥

The Lifeboat: Holding What Matters Most

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As I mentioned in my previous post about Celestial Navigation, I return again and again to the idea of vessels—not just as containers, but as carriers of memory, meaning, and mystery. Recently, I’ve been exploring the specific vessel symbol of the Lifeboat (thanks, Bosha), both as a new Enso Oracle Card (more about that soon) and as the inspiration for a workshop in which we create sculptural boats layered with mulberry paper, wax, and intention.

The Enso Circle Oracle Cards project is still in its “sandbox” stage, but coming up with symbols for the cards helps me with the ups and downs of the artistic life just as the Enso Circle has helped Artists-in-Residence since 2021 when Michelle Belto and I founded it.

The Enso Lifeboat card emerged as a quiet call to consider what we carry with us in times of change. It’s not about emergency escape—it’s about soulful preservation. What are the objects that keep us afloat emotionally? What fragments, what symbols, what small, beloved items would we gather into our own lifeboats if we had to set out across uncertain waters?

Here’s what the Lifeboat card look like in its current form:

And this is what you would read in the guidebook if you were to draw this card:

The Lifeboat

Keywords: preservation, essence, protection, emotional memory, inner refuge

When the Lifeboat card appears, it asks: What do you carry when all else must be left behind? This vessel holds not the things of utility, but of meaning—symbols, fragments, and reminders of what anchors you to self, spirit, and memory. In the upright position, it represents the quiet courage to choose what matters most and to cradle it with reverence. You are called to preserve your essence—not in grand gestures, but in the small, soul-bound keepsakes of your journey. The Lifeboat is sanctuary and simplicity. It’s a gentle reassurance that even in tides of uncertainty, you have the means to carry what’s essential.

In the reversed position, this card may signal overwhelm or disconnection—perhaps you’re holding too tightly to the wrong things, or drifting without recognizing what truly sustains you. It invites you to reexamine your cargo. Are you carrying weight that no longer serves? Can you release the nonessential to make space for the sacred?

Reflection Questions:

  • What emotional “items” do I instinctively protect?
  • What anchors me in moments of change?
  • Am I honoring what is truly meaningful, or clinging to what is familiar?

Affirmation:
I honor what matters most and carry it with care. In simplicity, I find sanctuary.

______________

Going Forward and Connecting

In the Spirit Vessels and Memory Boats workshop that I’m filming now in my little studio, we bring this metaphor into our hands. We begin by building the structure of the boat—humble materials like reed, cardboard, twine, and paper come together to form a frame. It’s not unlike the invisible scaffolding of our inner resilience.

As we wrap and shape and fuse layers of mulberry paper and encaustic wax, the vessel begins to take on a skin—fragile in appearance, but surprisingly strong, like the human heart.

At this stage, the question becomes more personal: What will you place inside? These boats are not meant to carry passengers or provisions in the literal sense, but fragments of memory, tokens of identity, and quiet reminders of what keeps us afloat. Some artists tuck in words on torn paper, a small stone, a scrap of fabric, a whisper of something lost or longed for.

Each lifeboat becomes a kind of reliquary—part sculpture, part story, entirely sacred. No two are alike. And none need explain themselves. Their power comes from the act of choosing, of honoring, of making space for what matters.

This is where I am right now – choosing what to include. The inside is lined with a special calligraphy paper and the edges are adorned and wired with special rocks and rusty rings and clay symbols. Do I want to include things that will stay permanently or keep them interchangeable? What anchors me in moments of change? These questions are as much a part of the process as the application of walnut ink and wax.

This workshop is still in development, but even now as I build prototypes and test materials, I can feel the quiet potency of the process. Just like the oracle card, the vessel invites reflection: What are you saving? And why?

More soon, as the vessel takes shape.

Safe voyages! Tend to your lifeboats!

♥Lyn

The Gift of Celestial Navigation

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In my last post, I talked about a new sculptural form I’m working on to take to Ireland for our Vessels workshop there this summer. I called it the Five Knot Vessel and it’s part of a larger idea encompassing Spirit Vessels/Sacred Ships. I’ve been filming a new workshop about that for the last couple of weeks.

Lots of other artists have helped show me the way, but  I’ve still been sort of inventing it as I go along. Strangely, I  haven’t really felt lost lost, and it occurred to me that I should thank my father for this. Here’s why –

During World War II, my father was a navigator, flying out of Horham Airbase in England,  charting courses through the night skies using instruments like the sextant and the ever-reliable chronometer. With only the stars and a drift meter, he found his way for his pilot and the crew through uncertainty by using celestial navigation.

His maps and almanacs were filled with numbers and angles, but to me, they always felt like something more—a kind of sacred geometry, a quiet trust in star patterns.

He pointed out to my brothers and me the constellations in the dark sky (I can still find Orion) and showed us how to find the North Star no matter where we were (the two outermost stars in the bowl of the Big Dipper point to it). Even though we moved around so much as children in a military family, he didn’t want us to ever feel lost.

I realize now that my own artistic journey draws deeply from that same navigational spirit. In my vessels and assemblages, I piece together fragments—shards, relics, whispered clues—to find direction, to create meaning. Like him, I chart a course, even when the path ahead isn’t visible.

My compass may be intuitive rather than mechanical, but the need to find my way, no matter where I am, echoes through every layer I build.

Each vessel I create feels like a map in three dimensions, a kind of spiritual charting made visible through form and texture. The assemblages are constellations of memory and mystery—bits of paper, found objects, old photos, words half-remembered or imagined—all pointing toward something just beyond the known.

This is important: I don’t always understand what I’m building at first, but as the pieces come together, a path emerges. It’s a quiet navigation, a way of honoring the instinct to move forward with purpose, guided by trust in the process. Just as my father trusted the stars, I trust the fragments, the gestures, the invisible pull that tells me, “you’re on course.”

My art is my “sky”—it holds the coordinates of where I’ve been and points to where I might go next.

In remembering my father’s tools of navigation, I’ve come to recognize my own, even though I’m not even halfway through this experimental vessel workshop journey. Where he had precise instruments and star charts, I have intuition, layers, and luminous surfaces that speak in symbols.

But the impulse is the same: to locate oneself in the vastness, to chart meaning from mystery. Each piece of art I make is a kind of message to the universe, a quiet assertion that I am here, I am looking, I am finding my way.

You, too, have your own navigational tools—anchored in a childhood memory, a beloved mentor’s words, or a moment that gave you courage and direction. Whatever they are, trust them. They are your inner compass, guiding you across the uncharted waters of your own creative life.

Perhaps that’s the greatest legacy of all—not the destination, but the courage to navigate by what light we have, and to keep creating our path, one small guiding star at a time. Thanks, Dad.

And thanks for reading!

 

Influencers

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We often hear the word influencer tossed around in today’s social media-driven world—usually referring to someone who promotes products, trends, or lifestyles to a broad audience.

Social media influencers thrive on visibility and quick engagement, building their followings through brand deals, viral trends, and aspirational lifestyles. Their goal is often transactional—to monetize their reach through partnerships and sponsorships. Living on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, they shape pop culture and consumer habits by promoting what’s popular, hoping followers will imitate their tastes. Their influence is driven by relatability and attention metrics—likes, followers, and views—rather than lasting artistic depth.

In contrast, an artist who influences others does so not through trends, but through the power of their vision, authenticity, and mastery. Their goal isn’t to build an audience for visibility, but to explore and express something true—and in doing so, they spark insight and courage in fellow artists. Rather than shaping consumer tastes, they shape creative thought. Their legacy is built on originality, integrity, and emotional resonance. And while they may never “go viral”, their work becomes a lasting part of the artistic dialogue—an invitation for others to reach further and create more honestly.

This idea of meaningful artistic influence has been deeply personal for me lately, especially through my recent exploration of vessels—both as tangible art objects and as metaphors for containment, offering, and transformation.

That exploration was sparked in no small part by the work of my friend and fellow artist, Shannon Weber. Her raw, intuitive fiber vessels—organic, mysterious, deeply rooted in place—stopped me in my tracks the first time I saw them.

Shannon never sets out to “teach” with her work, but her authenticity and fearless craftsmanship opened something in me. Her pieces whispered permission: You can build from instinct. You can honor materials. You can make containers for spirit, not just function.

That influence didn’t make me want to copy her—it made me want to listen more closely to my own hands, my own materials. It shaped how I approach my own vessels, especially in workshops.

When I teach, I’m not just showing students how to construct a form—I’m inviting them to fill it with meaning. The energy flows forward. I see students begin to trust their own stories and discover that their vessels hold more than objects—they hold essence. And then, they influence others in turn, through their courage and creativity.

Want to see what can be accomplished? Here is a link to a catalog of work from students in the recent Ephemeral Vessels workshop at UTSA/SW. We started the journey together, but they began to follow their own path as we worked together over the two days.

And of course, I carry the strong influence of other artists in this ongoing exploration – Joanna Powell Colbert, whose earth-grounded, sea-and-seasons centered spirituality helps me define my purpose in creating these forms. The insights I gain from her work flow into the vessels I create, filling them with meaning and intention.

And my dear friend Michelle Belto introduced me to the transformative qualities of wax years ago. It now adds a protective layer to my vessels while enhancing their surface with depth and luminous beauty. There are so many metaphors of influence in that process that dovetail into my work.

Here is a new form I’m working with to take to Ireland for our Vessels workshop there this summer. I call it the Five Knot Vessel. It’s small and simple, easy to pack and carry home, but has lots of possibilities. In spirit, it carries the presence of those who’ve guided me—Shannon, Joanna, Michelle, and so many others whose influence travels with me like quiet companions, woven into each layer and knot.

This is the living, breathing cycle of artistic influence: one artist lights a path, another follows and forges their own, and the light spreads. Not through algorithms or brand partnerships, but through the shared language of making. It’s quiet, powerful, and lasting.

Lyn, grateful for every creative influencer in my life ♥