Author Archives: lynbelisle

About lynbelisle

Lyn Belisle Artist’s Statement: Shards and Veils As an artist, my personal obligations and passions are pulling individual connections from the circular nature of time, fashioning shards of recognition from the well of collective unconscious, exploring the idea of the “secret handshake” in symbol and archetype, celebrating the frozen moment between what was and what is to come. I work in four main media to explore these ideas: • In collage, often using beeswax and altered papers to celebrate anonymous faces and otherworldly places • In unglazed earthenware clay and found objects, often to create spiritual and symbolic “neo-santo” assemblage • In fiber and paper, often to create wall pieces with natural colors, wax, felt, cheesecloth and digital photo images • In acrylic paint, often as pure, non-referenced exploration of form and veiling I take inspiration and comfort from the knowledge that we are all connected on a deep cross-cultural level with shared collective memories that each of us can glimpse through art without the need for words.

Picking Up Pennies in Your Path

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I found this penny yesterday outside of my local HEB grocery store. It looked as if it had been around a lot longer than 2010 — kinda beat-up and corroded. “Find a penny, pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck.”

Many of us grew up hearing that rhyme, a little scrap of folklore that turned the smallest coin into a charm against misfortune. The penny has always carried more weight in symbolism than it does in currency. From thrift (“a penny saved is a penny earned”) to chance (“a penny for your thoughts”), it’s a humble token that reminds us how small things can hold unexpected meaning.

And yet, after more than a century in circulation, the U.S. Mint will stop producing pennies next year. It feels strange to think that a coin so common, so unremarkable in daily life, is about to slip quietly into history. Wahhhh!

For me, though, pennies will never be ordinary. Whenever I spot one on the sidewalk or tucked in the dust in a corner of a door frame, I immediately think of my mother, now gone, and I take it as a sign — a quiet hello, a reminder that love lingers in the smallest of tokens. These unexpected pennies can become talismans of connection, proof that influence doesn’t end with absence.

Perhaps that’s the magic of the penny: it teaches us as artists to notice. To see the shimmer in what most people step over. To remember that sometimes, the universe drops a coin at our feet just to remind us we are not alone.

That same spirit inspired me to create a new card for the Enso Oracle: The Penny. Like the coin itself, the card is about noticing the small signs that appear along your path.

In the studio, it might be the scrap of paper you almost threw away but suddenly see as the perfect starting point, or the chance remark from a friend that opens a new direction.

The Penny also asks you to think of someone who has influenced your creative journey — a mentor, a mother, or a friend — and to carry their encouragement into your work. And when the card is reversed, it calls you to face the other side of the coin: to forgive the person whose doubt or discouragement has lingered too long, and to release that weight so it no longer limits your practice.

Drawing The Penny card is an invitation to pause, to honor what has been given, and to look for small treasures hiding in plain sight that might spark the next stage of your creative journey.

The Penny

Keywords: sign • remembrance • unseen influence • gratitude • forgiveness

Oracle Message:
The Penny appears as a small but shining reminder that nothing is insignificant. Just as a coin on the ground can feel like a message from someone we love, this card invites you to notice the quiet signs and synchronicities that connect you to others. It is a call to pause and acknowledge the unseen influence of those who have shaped your journey, for better or for worse. Upright, The Penny asks you to remember and honor those who have encouraged you, to carry their love into your work.

Reversed, it points to the other side of the coin — the voices that discouraged or doubted you. Their shadow may still linger, but now is the time to release them, to forgive, and to step forward unburdened.

Reflection Questions:

  • Who in your life has left you “pennies of encouragement,” small but lasting gifts of influence?
  • What overlooked signs in your studio practice might carry deeper meaning?
  • Is there a discouraging voice from the past that you can finally let go?

Affirmation:
I honor the voices that have loved me, and I release the ones that held me back.

__________________________________

So the next time you see a penny on the ground, pause before you step past it. Pick it up, notice its weight, and let it remind you of the small but powerful connections that guide your path — in the studio and beyond. And save it, because eventually there will be no more of these lovely little copper coins.

If you find one today, know that I am thinking about you and thanking you for reading this!!

 

That’s Life!

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Michelle Belto and I are ready to begin the fall term with our Enso Circle Continuing Residents, the group that is sort of like “alumni” from our online artists’ residency program which will reopen next spring.

I am so grateful to that group because they’re often the inspiration for my Enso Oracle cards. Their questions and the information we all share within the group are things that every artist copes with or celebrates in one way or another as we try to fit in our work with our life. That can be a huge job, right?

EEEK! It’s the Death Card! Yikes!

Nobody likes to pull the Death card in a tarot spread—it sounds ominous, even though it often means transformation or release. But what about creating quieter, more complex twin, the Life card?

Life is more unpredictable, more unruly, than death. Death is final; life interrupts. Life barges in uninvited, derails studio practice, pulls us away from the easel or the loom or the kiln. Life collides with intention—family calls, health falters, bills pile up, or maybe you win the lottery?? It not always bad, but it always disrupts.

When I created the Life card for the Enso Oracle, I wanted something as profound as the tarot’s Death card, but with less fear and more practical application to the artist’s journey. Life doesn’t end things in the same way death does—it reshapes them, tests them, and insists on being part of the process.

For an artist, drawing the Life card is a reminder that we live in a field of interruptions and detours. Yet within those interruptions lies the raw material of art itself: the texture of real experience, the unpredictable weather of being human.

What the Life Card Means

When the Life card comes up, it doesn’t say, “Stop creating.” It says, “Look at what is unfolding.” Life often looks like a distraction, but in truth it is the source of the deepest work. The missed studio hours, the detour from your schedule, the unplanned season of caregiving or crisis—all of these shape the inner landscape that eventually makes its way into your art.

In this sense, the Life card is not an obstacle but a grounding force. It tells us that art is not made apart from life; it is made because of it.

An Example: Interrupted Practice

I know an artist (a painter) who had to abandon a large canvas midway because her father grew ill. The painting sat untouched for months while she traveled back and forth between hospital visits and home. At first, she resented the interruption. But when she returned to the studio, she realized the canvas had been quietly waiting. The work resumed, but it carried something new—an undercurrent of tenderness and vulnerability she could not have painted before that season of life unfolded.

The interruption had not ruined the work. It had deepened it.

Another example is my own. Several years ago, I was facing a rushed deadline for an exhibit (I’m a procrastinator by nature), when a sudden family emergency took us out of town for a week. Thankfully, all turned out well with the family, but I came back to the studio in what I thought was real trouble. What surprised me, though, was how the forced pause gave me time to think more clearly. Away from the pressure of materials and mess, I imagined new approaches, and in that space I discovered a collage technique that not only saved the project but has become a mainstay of my practice ever since.

Drawing the Life Card as an Artist

So what does it mean when you draw the Life card?

  • It may be telling you to forgive yourself for missed studio days.

  • It may be reminding you that your creative path is not separate from the messy, glorious whole of existence.

  • It may be inviting you to weave the day’s interruptions—joyful or painful—into the story your art is telling.

Because Life, for all its unpredictability, is the well from which we draw.

______________________________________________________________

LIFE

Keywords: interruption, arrival, change, reality, presence

Interpretation (Upright):
Life comes to the door without warning. You may have had plans, momentum, even clarity—but now, something is shifting. This card reminds you that your creative path exists within the greater rhythm of life, not apart from it. Whether it’s a new opportunity, a deep loss, or a sudden turn, Life is asking you to pause and open the door. It may feel inconvenient or even frightening, but this is part of being fully human. Honor the moment, even if it interrupts your art. One day, it may become your art.

Interpretation (Reversed):
You may be resisting change or holding tightly to plans that no longer fit. When Life knocks, we don’t always feel ready—but pretending not to hear the knock doesn’t stop it. Reversed, this card suggests a reluctance to surrender control, even when the path forward is already unfolding. Can you make room for the unknown without losing your center?

Reflection Questions:

  • When has life redirected your creative path—and what grew from it?
  • What might happen if you welcomed interruption as part of the journey?

Affirmation:
I open the door, even when I don’t know what comes next.

_____________________________

A Closing Reflection

The next time Life shows up, whether in a card spread or in the form of an unexpected event, pause before you push it away. Ask: What is this teaching me? How can I hold this moment as part of my practice, not against it?

The Life card reminds us that without life—its surprises, its detours, its demands—there is no art. It’s the reminder that to be alive is already to be creating. Yay for Life!

 

Woolgathering — Juried Shows and Trusting the Process

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Lyn Belisle. 2025

(From the Dictionary: Woolgathering once literally referred to the act of gathering loose tufts of wool that had gotten caught on bushes and fences as sheep passed by. As you might imagine, woolgathering was not the most profitable of enterprises; its practitioners must have seemed to wander aimlessly, gaining little for their efforts. In the mid-16th century, woolgathering began to appear in figurative phrases such as “my wits went a woolgathering”—in other words, “my mind went wandering.” From there, it wasn’t long before the word woolgathering came to suggest daydreaming and mind-wandering.)

There is no Oracle Card for this post, but I do want to talk about something else that artists and makers hear a lot – that “Trust the Process” advice. In Shaun McNiff’s book by that name, he defines “trusting the process” as an embodied practice of letting go, staying open, embracing imperfection, engaging in improvisation, and responding to the evolving work—not insisting on a fixed result. It’s trusting that the creative intelligence inherent in the process itself will carry you to unexpected and resonant places.

What does that actually mean? Here’s a real example from my own studio that happened  when I wanted to create a piece for the Fiber Artists of San Antonio juried exhibition,  Rooted in Fiber: The Natural Textures of Texas. 

I started this piece with only a loose idea in mind—I wanted to make a vessel that would somehow reflect the call for entry, which asked artists to highlight our ties to the Texas landscape and textile traditions.

So I made a plain white form out of plaster and fiber. It sat on my table like a question mark: now what?

That’s when the process started asking me to trust it. My first risky move was burning holes into the surface with a soldering iron. It always feels scary—what if I ruin it? But the holes gave the vessel air, a kind of breath. (I thought about threading yarn through them, but that felt too simple, too obvious.)

Next came long sticks and a branched rim. That looked promising, but the proportions were off—it seemed more like a bowl trying to become a bonfire. I painted everything white to unify it. Still, it wasn’t quite there. (Note – it really IS pretty, but I was trying to honor the theme of the exhibition by creating a conversation about Texas fiber and this was going in the wrong direction – I’m saving this idea, though!!).

Then I stained the rim with walnut ink, hoping the earth tone would anchor the piece.

The shift came when I added unspun wool roving to the rim. Suddenly, something clicked.

On impulse, I looked up the word woolgathering. I discovered it referred not only to pulling scraps of wool from fences after sheep passed by—a task rooted in Texas’s textile history—but also to the act of daydreaming. That was the key.

But I had to cut back the sticks to change the focus and to reflect the idea of a rustic fence.

Cutting the sticks down was painful—they were beautiful, but they were overwhelming the form. Once shortened, though, they offered a perfect fench-like perch for bits of wool.

After reshaping the twigs, I brushed encaustic wax across the vessel’s surface and rubbed in pan pastels, earthy tones that recalled the grazing fields of sheep.

The vessel seemed to root itself in the land. When the wool was woven and integrated into the rim, I added final “sparkles” of white wax across the surface, echoing both stray tufts of wool caught on fences and the small white wildflowers that brighten Texas pastures. At last, the vessel became whole.

Every stage of this work asked me to let go, to take a chance, to risk losing what I had in order to find something better.

Woolgathering is the result: a vessel that holds both memory and imagination.

It carries the story of Texas’s fiber traditions, of sheep and goats shaping the land, and also the quiet act of wandering thought. For me, it’s a reminder that trusting the process is less about control and more about listening—about gathering scraps, following clues, and allowing the work to become what it wants to be.

And maybe that’s true for all of us, no matter what we’re making: the real beauty often emerges in the space between what we plan and what we dare to discover.

For me, trusting the process shows up in a lot of different ways:

  • Following a hunch. Sometimes I don’t know why I reach for a certain tool or material—I just feel the pull. Trusting the process means letting myself act on those impulses without needing a guarantee that they’ll work.

  • Welcoming accidents and discoveries. When I looked up the meaning of woolgathering, it was almost by accident, but that small act gave me the concept that tied everything together. Trusting the process means staying open to those chance encounters and letting them shift the work in a new direction.

  • Pausing when needed. There were moments when the vessel just wasn’t working, and I had to stop and wait for the next clue to reveal itself. Trusting the process means giving myself patience and permission not to solve everything at once.

  • Being willing to risk and revise. Cutting down those tall, beautiful sticks was hard, but it changed everything for the better. Trusting the process means being brave enough to undo or alter something I love for the sake of the whole piece.

  • Listening more than controlling. Over time, the vessel began to tell me what it wanted to become. Trusting the process means letting the work guide me, rather than forcing it to fit a plan I made at the start.

So for me, trusting the process isn’t just one thing—it’s following hunches, welcoming surprises, taking breaks, risking change, and listening carefully. It’s my way of saying: “I don’t know exactly where this is going yet, but I trust it will show me.”

My Invitation to You

How does trusting the process show up in your own work? I’d love to hear where uncertainty has led to discovery in your creative practice.

 

Returning to the Well: Three Paths for the Artist’s Spirit

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Photo by Melanie Childress Reuter at great peril to herself!

When our group traveled to Ireland, we visited several sacred wells. These were not simply places to gather water—they were wells of memory and mystery, worn smooth by centuries of seekers leaving tokens, prayers, and wishes. They grew in my imagination as metaphors for the multiple currents that give rise to art.

Our friend Melanie, who knew so much about these holy places, came prepared with small bottles—one for each of us—to collect water from St. Brendan’s well. Her thoughtful, reverent gesture reminded me that the experience of a well is both shared and deeply personal.

At first, I thought there would be only ONE oracle card named The Well. But no matter how much I tried to get around it, I kept hearing three distinct voices beneath that singular image, each one layered deeper than the last.

So The Well became a series of three separate cards: The First Well, The Second Well, and The Third Well. Here’s the short version.

  • The First Well — The Gathering Place (connection and community)

  • The Second Well — The Sacred Source (ritual and renewal)

  • The Third Well — The Hidden Depths (archetypes and unconscious)

Together and separately, these three form a layered invitation to explore how creativity flows: through community, through pilgrimage and blessing, and deep into the hidden currents of collective imagination.

Here are the three separate Enso Oracle Cards: The First Well, The Second Well, and The Third Well. Each carries its own presence and focus, just as each well in Ireland revealed a different kind of truth.

I’m sharing them here with you so you can see how they speak to you in image as well as in words.

Every artists has a need to visit one of these metaphoric wells for different reasons and at different times – this was another lesson I learned in Ireland as part of our group.

The First Well — The Gathering Place

Keywords: Community • Exchange • Support • Shared Wisdom

At the First Well, we meet each other with open vessels. This is the place of friendship, collaboration, and replenishment through shared ideas and presence.

Upright, it calls you to lean into community — to gather, to teach, to listen, and to remember that no artist creates in isolation.

Reversed, it asks: are you withholding your gifts, or resisting the support of others out of pride or fear? The well reminds us that water flows most freely when we pour into one another.

Reflection: Who nourishes me — and how can I offer nourishment in return?

Affirmation: I drink deeply of community and allow myself to be replenished by shared wisdom.

When you draw this card: You may need to seek out or organize a group of like-minded people. Consider joining a class, scheduling a studio visit, or reaching out to a trusted peer. The First Well suggests that connection itself is the medicine you seek.

The Second Well — The Sacred Source

Keywords: Blessing • Inspiration • Pilgrimage • Devotion

The Second Well is not just water, but water made sacred through reverence. It is the place of ritual, of intentional return, of renewal.

Upright, it calls you to mark your practice as sacred, to honor your creative path as pilgrimage, and to receive inspiration as blessing.

Reversed, it warns against neglecting the rituals that nourish you, or treating inspiration as something to be demanded instead of received with humility. This well offers more when approached with respect.

Reflection: What rituals and sacred pauses keep my practice alive?

Affirmation: I honor my path as sacred, and each return to the source blesses me anew.

When you draw this card: You may be called to slow down and honor your process as ritual. Light a candle, dedicate your work with gratitude, or make a small pilgrimage — to a gallery, a sacred site, or even a favorite place in nature. The Second Well reminds you that renewal comes when you approach creativity with reverence.

The Third Well — The Hidden Depths

Keywords: Depth • Archetypes • Dreams • Collective Unconscious

The Third Well lies in shadow, but its depths shimmer with infinite reflection.

Upright, it asks you to journey inward, to engage with dreams, symbols, and archetypes that rise from the Collective Unconscious. Here is mystery, intuition, and primal connection.

Reversed, it cautions against being lost in shadow — drowning in illusion, fear, or over-analysis. Depth is a gift only when balanced with air and light. The Third Well invites courage to see what is hidden and return with wisdom.

Reflection: What symbols and stories are rising from my depths, and how do they shape my path?

Affirmation: I trust the depths of my inner well to reveal truths that connect me to all humanity.

When you draw this card: You may need to look beneath the surface of your work. Keep a dream journal, explore mythology, or allow symbols and images to emerge without judgment. The Third Well reminds you that the unconscious holds treasures that, once surfaced, will resonate far beyond yourself.

______________________________________________________________

I know that this is a long and rather complex post, but here are three everyday examples that might help explain how each of these metaphoric (and sometimes actual) “wells” serves a different purpose:

The First Well — The Gathering Place

  • An artist is feeling isolated in their studio, unsure if their work has meaning. Drawing this card suggests it’s time to seek connection — perhaps by joining a critique group, organizing a studio visit, or even hosting a casual coffee with creative friends. The First Well reminds them that inspiration often flows more freely in conversation and shared presence than in solitude.

The Second Well — The Sacred Source

  • A painter finds their practice has become mechanical, more about deadlines than devotion. When this card appears, it is an invitation to pause and return to ritual — lighting a candle before working, dedicating the day’s effort with gratitude, or making a small pilgrimage (to a gallery, a natural site, or a remembered place) to refresh their spirit. The Second Well signals that the creative path is sacred, and renewal will come when it’s approached with reverence.

The Third Well — The Hidden Depths

  • A writer is circling the surface of their ideas, producing technically fine work but sensing something deeper is missing. Drawing this card suggests it’s time to descend inward — journaling dreams, meditating, or exploring myth and archetype to uncover the symbols beneath their stories. The Third Well reminds them that art rooted in the unconscious carries a power that resonates universally, even if it feels mysterious at first.

Each well, then, marks a different kind of replenishment:

  • First Well: external support through people.

  • Second Well: spiritual renewal through reverence.

  • Third Well: deep symbolic truth through the unconscious.

__________________________________________________

But here’s the best part — you don’t have to draw a card to know when it’s time to visit The Well. A card is a beautiful reminder, and you can always return to these descriptions, but the truth is, we all carry an inner knowing. We recognize when we’re thirsty for community, when we need to pause for renewal, or when it’s time to journey into our own depths. The wells are always there, waiting — and we already know the way to them.

 

 

The Cane: A Companion on the Artist’s Path

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It’s been two weeks since we boarded the train from Westport to Dublin on our way back home from Mulranny. I’m working on a catalog of our work and adventures, and seeing all of the photographs brings back profound lessons that I learned when I was teaching there.

Our group explored not just making vessels in the studio, but also the wild, windswept beauty of the West Coast—the cliffs, sacred wells, narrow paths, stony beaches, and long flights of stone stairs.

One of our group members walked with a cane, and I worried at first that the rough terrain might keep her from fully joining us. But she surprised us all.

Her cane was not a hindrance. It was a companion. She leaned on it when the path was steep, planted it firmly when the wind blew hard, and carried it with quiet dignity (and smiles).

She never let it define her; instead, she used it as a tool that allowed her to go everywhere everyone else went. Her determination and grace became a lesson for us all.

This memory inspired THE CANE Enso Oracle Card, which holds a message not just for travelers in the world, but for travelers in the studio. In our creative practice, the cane becomes a metaphor. Where might I allow myself the gift of support without apology? What “cane” could help me take the next step? Am I resisting help that would make my path easier?

For artists, a “cane” might look like a mentor’s guidance, a trusted book, a workshop that opens new doors, or even a tool in the studio that simplifies what once felt cumbersome. Sometimes it’s as simple as asking for feedback instead of struggling alone, or letting technology carry some of the load so you can stay focused on the art itself.

Too often we equate independence with strength (I know I do), as if needing help somehow diminishes our creative power. But in truth, the supports we lean on—whether people, tools, or practices—are what allow us to keep climbing, to see new horizons, and to carry on when the path grows rocky.

So perhaps the question to bring into the studio today is this: What is my “cane”? What support could I embrace that would allow me to see farther, work longer, and create with greater ease?

Strength isn’t about going it alone. It’s about knowing when to lean, so we can keep walking.

The Cane
Support • Persistence • Courage

The Cane is not a sign of weakness—it is a trusted companion on the path, a staff for the explorer’s hand, a reminder that accepting support allows us to go farther than we could alone. Whether it steadies our steps on stony paths, helps us climb sacred stairs, or simply gives us the confidence to keep moving, it becomes part of the journey rather than a limitation. In art, as in life, the wise traveler knows when to lean on something trusted.

Upright, The Cane speaks of resilience, resourcefulness, and the grace to accept help without apology.

Reversed, it cautions against mistaking stubborn independence for strength—when we refuse the support we need, we risk exhausting ourselves and cutting short the adventure. The Cane teaches that there is no shame in asking for help, only strength in receiving it. Let it be your symbol of determination, your portable pillar, your license to explore the world at your own pace. Every mark you make—whether with a brush, a pen, or your feet—is richer because you carried on.

Reflection: Where might I allow myself the gift of support without apology? What “cane” could help me take the next step? Am I resisting help that would make my path easier?

Affirmation: I welcome the tools and allies that make my journey possible.

______________________________

Reflection for Your Own Practice

Just as my friend in Ireland leaned on her cane to climb cliffs and cross ancient paths, we as artists can lean on our own “canes” in the studio—supports that help us keep moving, see farther, and continue creating without apology. Ask yourself: What is my cane?

Here are some possibilities:

  • A class you’ve hesitated to take because you felt you “should already know”

  • A piece of equipment or tool you’ve postponed buying, even though it would save time or expand your options

  • The act of asking for feedback from a trusted friend, mentor, or fellow artist

  • Giving yourself permission to hire help for tasks that drain your energy (framing, shipping, photography)

  • Allowing technology—software, apps, even AI—to handle the tedious parts so you can focus on creating

  • Joining (or rejoining) a community or critique group for connection and encouragement

  • Setting boundaries around your studio time and asking others to honor them

  • Revisiting a favorite book, workshop, or teacher who once sparked your growth

  • Saying yes to rest and recovery when your body or spirit needs it

Which of these could be your cane right now? And which others could you name for yourself? I know one of mine would be setting boundaries around my studio time – but it’s hard!!

Your “cane” might also be thought of as a staff, walking stick, compass, anchor, lifeline, bridge, or guide—whatever image reminds you that support is not a weakness but a way forward.

True strength in art, as in life, is not measured by how far we can go alone, but by the wisdom of knowing when—and how—to lean so that the journey continues.

Linda, this card is for you!!♥

 

The Pendulum: Trusting the Swing in Mulranny

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I’m back from Ireland with so many stories and memories that it will take a while to sort them out! But here’s an interesting one that was rather unexpected and which inspired a new Enso Oracle card.

Sometimes, the best teaching moments aren’t in the lesson plan.

While I was leading my Vessels workshop in Mulranny, Ireland, surrounded by the misty coast and the wind-bent trees, I found myself reaching into my bag and pulling out my “traveling” pendulum. I hadn’t planned to use it—it was more of a talisman I’d brought along (as usual) for my own quiet moments. But Mulranny is a place of mystery, myth, and magic, and the impulse felt right.

I told the group, “Let’s try something.” We were at that point in the workshop where decisions—big and small—needed to be made. Which colors to use? Which textures? Which direction to take in the making of a vessel? I explained that a pendulum can act as a bridge to the deeper knowing we all carry, the kind that hums quietly underneath the noise of logic.

Holding the pendulum over two color swatches, I let it hang still and asked a simple question. Slowly, it began to move—just a subtle sway at first, then more definite. The group leaned in. Soon, several of them were trying it, holding their own questions in mind and watching for that almost imperceptible shift.

It wasn’t about fortune-telling. It wasn’t about giving up control. It was about giving ourselves permission to trust the quiet “yes” or “no” that lives in the body. To remember that intuition is not guesswork—it’s an ancient sense, one that’s always been part of the creative process.

Later in the week, when we visited Westport, we wandered down a narrow side street and found a tiny shop called Amber. Inside was the most extraordinary assortment of pendulums—crystal, amethyst, silver, and other beautiful stones, each one catching the light like a secret waiting to be told.

We must have looked like a small flock of birds gathered around the display, choosing the pendulum that felt “just right” in our hands. Many of our group went home with one of their own, ready to continue the quiet conversation we had begun in Mulranny.

In a place like this, where the land seems to breathe stories, it felt natural to weave this tiny ritual into the making. And it reminded me that sometimes the most valuable thing we take home from a workshop isn’t a finished piece—it’s a new way of listening.

Now, my traveling pendulum has earned a permanent place in my teaching kit. Because you never know when mystery, myth, and magic will decide to join the lesson.

Here is the new Enso Oracle Card, inspired by the wonderful artists who traveled with me.

The Pendulum

Keywords: Inner knowing, choice, intuitive guidance, balance, surrender, sacred uncertainty

There are moments when logic falls silent and your hand must let go of the wheel. The Pendulum swings between possibilities, not to confuse, but to reveal. When this card appears, it’s a reminder that you already hold the answer—not in your thoughts, but in your body, your breath, and your deep creative instincts. The pendulum does not choose for you—it reveals what your soul already knows.

Upright Meaning:
You are facing a decision that cannot be solved by reason alone. Step away from overthinking. This is a moment to consult your intuition, your body, your subtle knowing. Let the pendulum—literal or metaphorical—guide you gently to the path that resonates deepest. Your aesthetic instincts are powerful. Trust the quiet yes or no that lives in the swing of your inner compass.

Reversed Meaning:
You may be seeking external validation or becoming stuck in analysis. The pendulum is still swinging, but you’re afraid to watch. This card asks you to release your need for certainty. Let go of the fear of making the “wrong” choice. When intuition is blocked, even a small ritual of trust can restore your balance. Be still. Feel. Begin again.

Reflection Questions:

  • What decision am I overthinking right now?
  • How do I listen to my intuition—through movement, image, ritual, or sensation?
  • What signs tell me I’m in alignment with my creative truth?

Affirmation:
I trust the swing of my knowing. My intuition is quiet, wise, and always present.

____________________________________

If you are interested in knowing more or want to try it for yourself, here is a short guide to using the pendulum as part of your art practice.

Trusting the Swing: A Pendulum Guide for Artists

Using a Pendulum to Access Creative Intuition – Lyn Belisle

The pendulum is a simple yet powerful tool for tuning into your intuitive voice. For artists, it offers a unique way to bypass overthinking and reconnect with the subtle guidance that lives within the body and spirit. Whether you’re choosing colors, materials, titles, or direction in a stalled project, the pendulum can act as a bridge to your inner knowing.

What You’ll Need:

  • A pendulum (any small weighted object on a chain or string—crystal, metal, clay, or even a washer on a thread)
  • A quiet space
  • A sense of openness and curiosity

Getting Started:

Center Yourself.
Begin by taking a few deep breaths. Place your feet on the ground and soften your gaze. Hold the pendulum lightly between your thumb and forefinger, letting it hang still.

Establish Your Yes and No.
Ask aloud or silently: “Show me yes.” Observe how the pendulum begins to move—perhaps in a circle, or back and forth. Then ask: “Show me no.” Each person’s pendulum may respond differently, so honor your unique motion.

Pose Simple Questions.
Begin with clear, gentle questions that can be answered intuitively:
– Is this color the right choice for this piece?
– Should I work on this project today?
– Does this direction feel aligned with my voice?

Trust What Arises.
Resist the urge to override the response with logic. The pendulum’s movement reflects your subconscious alignment—not a magic answer, but a mirror to your own resonance.

Use in Your Practice.
Keep your pendulum in the studio. Use it when you’re feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or unsure. Let it become a small ritual, a moment of reconnection with your deeper self.

A Final Note:

Using a pendulum isn’t about fortune-telling—it’s about slowing down, listening differently, and allowing mystery into your making. The more you practice, the more attuned your intuition becomes. Like any creative tool, its power comes from the attention and trust you give it.

 

 

The Muñeco: A Small Figure That Holds So Much

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While researching a new series of altar-based assemblages for the Taos exhibit that will be inspired by the ritual codex of Sr. Alfonso García Téllez, I rediscovered a word I hadn’t thought about in years: muñeco. (“moo-NYEH-koh”)

You may not have heard this term before in this context. In Spanish, muñeco means “little doll” or “figure,” but in the sacred art of Alfonso Téllez—an Otomí shaman from San Pablito, Mexico—a muñeco is something much more than a toy. It is a spirit vessel, a symbolic stand-in used in healing rituals, offerings, and prayers.

Cut from handmade amate bark paper in simple, symmetrical forms, these figures carry what is too heavy, too complex, or too mysterious to name directly.

That idea stopped me in my tracks — a symbol? An archetype? A vessel for complex emotions?

In Téllez’s codices, a cut paper bird figure, for instance, might represent loss, freedom, rebirth, or all of those at once. The figure is a kind of visual shorthand—a handmade icon that expresses the inexpressible.

These are not just decorative elements; they are tools of ceremony and emotion, used in acts of release, remembrance, and reverence.

And that’s when I realized — we could all use a muñeco.

What if you cut a shape from paper—just a silhouette—and let it hold something for you? A grief. A prayer. A question. A transition.

You could glue it into a collage, tuck it into a pocket, burn it, bury it, or simply keep it near. Not to solve the feeling. But to give it form. To acknowledge it. To begin to let it move.

This idea became the seed for a new oracle card in my Enso deck—The Muñeco. It reminds us that the most powerful symbols don’t have to be complex or literal. They just have to be true.

Sometimes, the smallest figure holds the most.

The Muñeco

Keywords: Spirit Vessel · Proxy · Release · Ancestral Simplicity

Interpretation:

The Muñeco is a doll-like figure cut from bark or paper—simple, symmetrical, and quiet. But don’t mistake its humility for weakness. It is a sacred stand-in, a vessel for what you cannot carry, what you cannot say. In ritual, the muñeco holds illness, sorrow, memory, or prayer. In your life, it may be asking: What weight are you ready to release? What part of you longs to be witnessed and let go?

This card honors the ancient truth that the most powerful symbols are not always grand—they are small, handmade, passed down, and alive with meaning. The Muñeco reminds you that fragility and faith can live in the same shape. Cut your prayer from paper. Name your burden. Then offer it forward, and let it be carried.

Reversed:

Reversed, The Muñeco suggests confusion between what is yours and what you’ve placed onto others—or what others have placed on you. Are you unconsciously projecting, assigning roles, or expecting others to carry what is yours to hold? Or are you refusing to let something go, keeping it folded tightly within yourself? The spirit figure has become tangled. This card invites you to separate, to clarify, and to release with compassion.

Reflection Questions:

  • What object or act could serve as a release today?
  • Have I mistaken simplicity for lack of meaning—or overlooked the quiet things that hold the most?
  • Who or what have I turned into a proxy for my own unspoken needs?

Closing Insight:

The Muñeco holds space for what cannot speak. In letting it carry your burden, you remember that even the smallest gesture can be an act of ceremony.

(Above) Autograph manuscript concerning Otomí indigenous curandero customs and folk medicine in Mexico. The text describes shamanic rituals for various maladies (enfermedades) with mounted cut-out paper figures (mun̋ecos)representing spirit entities drawn from both indigenous and Christian mythos. Illustrated with amate bark paper cut-outs, dated approximately 1978

_____________________________________________

A Small Practice

If this idea speaks to you, try this:

Sit quietly with a small square of folded paper. You don’t need a plan—just rest your hands, take a breath, and begin to cut. Let your thoughts wander toward something you’d like to let go of… or something you wish to remember.

When you’re ready, unfold the paper.

See what’s there. A figure, a shape, a whisper of a form.

You’ve made your own muñeco.

Now pause. Ask yourself: What do I want to do with this little symbol?

Will you keep it tucked into a journal? Burn it in ceremony? Bury it, give it away, or place it on your studio worktable or tape it in your window?

Deciding what to do with the cut shape is part of the ritual.

It’s a way of giving form to something too vast for words—and choosing how to honor it or say goodbye to it.

And speaking of saying goodbye, I’m headed to Ireland this week to teach a workshop at the Mulranny Arts Centre—an inspiring place where dreams and landscapes overlap. I’ll be offline for a little while, but I’ll return soon with stories, images, and new ideas to share.

In the meantime, why not cut a paper shape, a muñeco —not to finish something, but to begin. Let it be a placeholder for your thoughts, your plans, your hopes. Let it hold what you’re not ready to name just yet.

Be safe.
Do good work.
And let the small things carry meaning!

Thanks, as always, for reading SHARDS.

♥Lyn

my muñeco for the journey – it holds so much and lets go of so much

The Pause: Take a moment. Let it be enough

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This is the next in a series of summer posts using the in-progress Enso Circle oracle cards that I’m working on to help myself keep consistently grounded in studio practice and creative community. Thanks for being part of that. Read on.

In the wake of the recent floods here in Texas, we find ourselves reeling not only with grief, but with a sense of helplessness. As artists, our instinct is often to respond: to create, to express, to offer solace through our work. We feel the call to stay on the path, to keep moving forward, to do something with our hands that might help mend the world.

But there are moments when even that noble impulse must yield to something deeper—stillness. Not from a lack of inspiration or purpose, but from a need to let the weight of the world settle gently into our hearts without resistance. To let silence be a kind of medicine.

This is not a surrender. It’s a sacred pause—a conscious act of rest and reflection that allows us to absorb what we need before we continue on with renewed meaning and strength. We do not stop because we are lost—we pause because we are listening.

This another early Enso Oracle card that I created several months ago, but it seems really appropriate right now.

THE PAUSE

The Pause – When Stillness Is the Bravest Choice

Keywords: Stillness · Restoration · Listening · Grace

Interpretation (Upright):
The Pause arrives not as an absence, but as a presence—quiet, whole, and necessary. It invites you to step away from motion, not because you are uninspired, but because your spirit knows when to rest. Like a hush between notes in music, this moment of stillness holds space for something sacred: integration, healing, and gentle awareness. In the midst of life’s turbulence, this card reminds you that you are allowed to stop. To be. To listen. Rest is not retreat—it is preparation. In the pause, your deeper knowing rises. Let it.

Interpretation (Reversed):
When reversed, The Pause may reveal a deep discomfort with stillness—an inner urgency to do something, especially in times of sorrow or upheaval. You may feel desperate to help, to fix, to create meaning out of heartbreak. But this impulse, though noble, can become a way of avoiding your own need to rest and receive. Not every response must be immediate. This card asks you to allow space for presence before action. Choose grace over urgency. Trust that your quiet awareness now will shape deeper, more meaningful offerings later.

Reflection Questions:

  • When was the last time you truly allowed yourself to be still?
  • What emotions or insights have you been too busy to feel?
  • What would it mean to pause—not out of weakness, but out of wisdom?

Affirmation:
I honor the stillness between moments. In rest, I restore my light.

What happens after the Pause?

You don’t simply go back to work. You go forward—with a steadier heart, clearer eyes, and a deeper sense of intention. The stillness doesn’t erase grief or uncertainty, but it softens the way you carry them. You may begin again slowly. Gently. You may write one word, make one mark, sweep your studio floor, or sit beside your worktable and simply breathe. That is enough.

The Pause is not a break from your path—it is a sacred moment within it.

Things to think about when you need to pause:

  • I don’t need to solve everything right now
  • This moment is enough—I am safe to just be.
  • Stillness is not emptiness—it is where I gather strength.

Previous Enso Circle oracle card posts:

THE CRACKED CUP

THE SHINY OBJECT

THE HUMP

THE WANDERER

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.