The Sidewalk Years

Wild Cherries, circa 1999-2001

It seems everyone’s buzzing about the 90s at the moment, and who can blame them? It was a fantastic time to be alive, partly due to the fact that our phones were still attached to the wall. We were unreachable and having a blast.

No Instagram. No Facebook. If you wanted people to know what you were up to, you had to find a way to engage and it wasn’t quick or easy. It was boots on the ground, hard-earned. Ads in magazines or newspapers, flyers and posters on street poles, that sort of thing.

I remember that if I had to transport paintings somewhere and there was a coffee shop nearby, I’d always take the path right past it. And I’d always carry the paintings facing out. A slightly ridiculous one-woman art parade, taking the long way. I laugh about it now, but it worked.

Sometimes people would stop me. They’d ask about the piece, where it was going, and once or twice they followed me and purchased something.

At that time, when it came to promoting my art, my most valuable asset was my mailing list—you know, the address book-kind. Every time someone showed interest in my work, their name and mailing address were handwritten into it. When I had an art show coming up, I sent full colour, printed invitations in the mail. It was personal. Real envelopes. Real stamps. Real connection. Later, email became a thing and suddenly I could reach people directly, quickly and it was all very “oooh, paperless”. Still, in those early days, it all felt personal.

Apparently there were rules about these things, but I didn’t know that at the time. I’ve since learned that certain corners of the art world believed artists shouldn’t promote themselves. The thinking was that you knew your place and waited quietly until the right institutions or gatekeepers decided you were worthy of attention.

I’m glad it never occurred to me that I was supposed to wait. I was a painter making art. As simple as that. I believed in my work. People liked it and wanted to see more of it, so I found ways to show them.

Looking back now, I realize the tools may have changed, but the fundamentals haven’t.

Make the work. Believe in it. Find ways for people see it.

And if that means walking the long way past a café with a painting facing outward… well, there are worse marketing strategies.

Love,
Laura. xo

P.S. If you know someone who’d like this, please send it their way. It helps more than you know. Think of it as the modern version of putting up a poster for me.

It was All a Little Uncomfortable

I was chatting with a friend the other day. She was on her own, in an isolated little cabin, snow falling quietly outside, and I was asking her about the solitude and what it's revealed, if anything at all. She’s one of those awesomely-curious humans that’s always seeking to fully understand everyone and everything. I love that about her. We chatted about the Year of the Fire Horse and what it would bring for us (if you don’t know, look that one up). 

At one point she said, “What’s your word for the year, Laura?” It’s a small ritual we return to now and then, choosing a word or phrase as a touch point to guide us. Her word for the year was Momentum. 

Last year, my word was Expansion. And holy moly, it delivered. In ways I never could have planned. I finished my book, RETREAT, started navigated the publishing process, found new ways to offer retreats, produced my Gathering Light card deck, and made room for some exciting new partnerships.
E X P A N S I O N. ✔ 

"I don’t know. My word hasn’t quite landed yet", I told my friend. I’ve been too busy, I guess. 

But now, as I reflect on the year behind me and the one unfolding now, one word keeps rising up. Discomfort. And not in the way you might expect.

Last year was one of the most uncomfortable years of my life. And at the same time, it was one of the most empowering and liberating, with the kind of exhilaration that comes from stepping into new territory without a map. New collaborations, new expectations, new projects, layers and old systems shed, and new versions of myself emerging that’d been too timid to show up before. And believe me, none of it felt graceful at the time. That’s the part I want to talk about. It was messy.

There was no certainty, just a series of small, super imperfect steps taken while feeling completely naked. Expansion wasn’t pretty and it was a whole lot of uncomfortable. And it all began by admitting a belief I’d been carrying for a long time, that a certain kind of discomfort meant I was doing something wrong—that if something felt impossible, awkward, or too complicated, it was a sign to avoid, to wait.

I took a deep breath (or ten) and shed light on some outdated, limiting patterns that had done their job. They had kept me good and safe, but were now holding me back. In order to expand, I had to take a good long look at what I was resisting and ask myself, "why? What are you afraid of?” There was some heavy lifting there, I can assure you. 

I realized that I could use discomfort as my guide—signalling that I was right where I was meant to be. And when things got really nerve-racking, my trusty inner voice would speak up, “it’s all going to be ok. One step at a time. Everything is figureoutable, Laura.” Thank God for her.

I learned that not having a fkn clue is ok. Maybe even better than ok. So is searching for answers and second-guessing and rewriting, and rewriting again. There were long forest walks where I talked myself in and out of decisions. Early mornings with lists, and then crossing things out. In-depth, repeated conversations with family, best friends and mentors (thank God for them too). I had to be willing to have tough conversations I didn’t yet have language for, ask the awkward questions, and make some very tough choices. 

We all love the idea of being ready. We tell ourselves we’ll begin once we feel more certain, more confident, more prepared. As if courage arrives first and action follows neatly behind. In my experience, it’s almost always the other way around. 

Comfort is lovely and cozy but it’s so bloody limiting. Our work stays safe, and so do our lives. Discomfort, on the other hand, reveals what matters, and for me, it was my green light.

So, DISCOMFORT is my word. And it will continue to be my launching pad. 

Love, Laura. xo

Ps. If you’re standing at the edge of something right now, and everything feels too much, you don’t have to leap. Just take the next small step. One step at a time. Everything is figureoutable.

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Thanks for reading and for being here with me.
If someone you know might connect with this story, please pass it on.
You’re helping build a beautiful community.

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Please consider joining me at one of our retreats:
link to more info

Tend the Nets

I’m in Sayulita at the moment, and every morning just before dawn, I take my place to watch the fishermen arrive. There are early-morning surfers barely visible in the low light, but it’s the fishing end of the beach that keeps me captivated. It’s always the same group of men, the same boats pulled up on the sand, the same nets laid out and waiting. There’s a certain kind of intimacy, a familiarity to it, the kind that comes from returning to the same place to do the same work, day after day.

They gather around their boats and get to work. Bags are loaded. Nets are lifted and shaken, checked for tears, mended where needed. There are pats on the back and laughter, and the low, familiar hum of people who know one another well and know exactly what needs doing.

They work closely together, like a well-oiled engine, and when it’s time, they push each boat into the water, steadying them against the pull of the waves. The seabirds gather around, hoping for any discarded treats, and then, one by one, the boats disappear around the point. Nets will be cast. The catch will be brought in, cleaned and prepared. Then food will make its way to tables, to families, to businesses that depend on it. 

I find myself wondering if they listen to the news cycle, and then I realize it doesn’t really matter if they do or don’t. They already know what they need to know. They understand the weather, the seasons, the water. They know when to go and when to stay in. They know that some days are generous and others aren’t, and that both are part of the work.

There is something deeply grounding about this. The respect for craft and the usefulness of it. The care taken with their tools and with one another. This is work with purpose.

Each morning, they show up. They tend to what is theirs to tend. And tomorrow, before the sun is up, they’ll be back.

HOLIDAY MAGIC

T’is the season when the world pulls at us, brighter and heavier at the same time. It’s the emotional season, whether we ask for it or not. The lights go up, and so do expectations. 

T’is also the season to grab a brush, for this I know is true…

When you make something, you drop out of the cycle of stress and into your body. You activate your hands, your eyes, your breath, your imagination, and you literally interrupt overthinking. The act itself slows cortisol and helps energy move through you instead of staying all bottled up, making knots.

The act of creating anything will emotionally regulate, like a kind of nervous system reset. When you feel overwhelmed, stuck, or buzzing with stress, creativity is the off-button. It’s the switch that pulls you out of your crazy, monkey-mind head, and into the present moment.

And maybe, just maybe, in this wild holiday swirl, making something with your hands will ignite and spark some holiday magic, nudging us closer to warmth and honest cheer, gathering and gratitude, and the genuine desire to share a little more kindness than usual. And holy moley, our world could use a bunch more of that. Don’t you think?

And this…

You can do it now. You are allowed to. Permission granted. No one needs proof of your credentials first. There’s no barrier to entry—there never was. And your nervous system doesn’t care if what you make is “good” or “sellable” or “award worthy.” It just cares that you MADE. Full stop.

“But I don’t know how to start.” “But I don’t know what I’m doing.” “But I’m not creative.” “But.”…

Go put your hands to something anyway. Paint, stitch, sketch, cook, write, glue stuff, carve wood, smear pastels with your thumb. Go grab a recipe book, some thread. A hammer, if you’re a hammer person. Whatever it is, start there. The rest will follow, like holiday magic.

Laura. xo 

HAND MADE HOPE

The days before a retreat always carry their own kind of energy—a hum of nerves and anticipation that sits just under the surface. The lists, the packing, the quiet moments in between. And underneath it all, a growing sense that what we’re about to do matters.

In a few short days, Pete and I will land on the east coast of Sicily. Our guests will arrive from far-flung places, ready to dive into the retreat experience. There will be nerves and laughter, clinking glasses, and that easy sense of belonging that always finds its way in when people create side by side. That’s where the magic is.

Now, more than ever, I believe in the enduring importance of making something with our own hands. Each act of creation sends an important message, “I was here, and I cared enough to make this.” In a time when machines can mimic nearly anything, the things made by human hands are becoming more valuable, not less. They carry energy, imperfection, and heart you can literally feel, if you try.

Making something has a way of healing us. It steadies the mind, lowers the noise and softens our edges. And in a world that keeps getting faster and more automated, we desperately need more of that. More peace. More slowness. More making. More things that bear the mark of a real human being.

For me, our retreats have always been about that—remembering what it feels like to be human again. To feel again. To have your feet in the grass, to breathe deeply, to laugh and play, to listen and taste and truly be present. They’re about filling up so that you can give back, to yourself and to others. Perhaps that’s why we crave them. Not as an escape from the world, but as a quiet and mighty way of tending to it, creating beautiful ripples, as I like to say.

I can’t change the world, but I can keep gathering good folk and nourishing them with beauty and kindness. I can keep painting what is good and raw and true, encouraging others to listen to their own creative voice, and trust that every brushstroke and every shared meal holds a little hand made hope.

Love,
Laura xo

Ps. Yes, I’ll bring home some yummy recipes, straight from Polina and Alessandro’s Sicilian kitchen.

The Trouble with Precious

Precious has a habit of getting in my way. We even discussed it during this summer’s retreat, as we examined why we feel terror when standing before a perfectly new blank canvas. I’ve realized I need to be more aware of it, and of the quiet and mighty ways it steers my actions.

I’m feeling precious in all sorts of corners these days: in that painting that was such a big hit, I’ve found myself recreating it over and over; in my relationship with my daughter who is out there in the big world, finding her own way; and in letting the retreat recipe book settle into the hands of the publisher. It shows up in all kinds of sneaky ways, quietly convincing me to hold back, protect, preserve.

But I’m realizing that the more precious I hold something, whether it’s a painting, an idea, or a part of my life, the more I risk locking it up so tightly it can’t move. Creatively speaking, I think precious is the enemy of flow and evolution. It’s that moment when the canvas feels too fine to touch, or those new supplies too sweet to even open. So you pause. You protect. You stop, often for a very long while.

Life is not so different. We can love something, or someone, so fiercely that we stop allowing it to grow or change. In our guarding, we forget that the really good stuff isn’t found in protection, but in growth, movement, evolution, truth. And when we hold an idea or belief too tightly, we become rigid, stuck, unable to see beyond ourselves. And we stop learning. Even losing our compassion.

Fear plays the ultimate role here, and fear is powerful. It keeps us in line, hesitant, obedient and small. The more afraid we are, the easier we are to control. So maybe loosening our grip is a small, personal rebellion … a refusal to let fear dictate how freely we move, speak, love, or create … in the studio and in life.

I think about all the canvases, the ideas, even certain times of my life I’ve tried to protect in this way, and how still they became. Not alive. Not evolving. And then, in a single unguarded moment, how they leapt forward the moment I loosened my hold.

Love,
Laura xo

I’m reminded of Terry Cody as I write this. A brilliant, downtown artist friend of mine, sadly, now deceased. He was a real character, and he gave me some valuable advice back in my early days. When faced with a blank canvas, “just fuckin’ attack it,” he said. He was right.

I just googled Terry, and stumbled upon this Modern Home Magazine article from about 8 years ago, in which I mention him. It’s a nice spread and I was happy to see it again. I thought I’d share it with you.
https://victoria.modernhomemag.ca/laura-harris-new-works-interview/

Not a Solo Act.

Hosting a retreat is like holding your breath and exhaling at the same time. It fills you up and leaves you wide open. And this last one, here at our home in Victoria, left something golden in its wake.

It was one of those rare weeks where everything just clicked. Not because it was seamless (oh dear, no), but because it was true. People showed up exactly as they were, ready, willing and up for every little bit of what we had in store. 

These retreats are a mix of all the good things that nourish the creative soul: thoughtfully prepared food, a few simple painting techniques, beautiful music and space to let go. They offer a chance to remember that making art doesn’t have to be precious, it just has to be yours.

Luckily, there were moments when I found myself standing alone, unnoticed, just taking it all in. I’d see someone light up at their first bold brushstroke, eyes wide with delight. I’d catch the quiet kindness in one guest encouraging another. Someone would be sitting silently, brush in hand, letting the next part come through. I’d hear laughter erupt from the kitchen, and catch the sweet smell of something grilling. I’d watch as the table was lovingly set with fresh linens and wine glasses. Small things, maybe. But they all held a bit of magic.

From that quiet edge of things, I saw the potent magic of gathering and collective creativity. I saw people feeling whole and rediscovering their spark. Through colour, through mess, through making. I saw them giving themselves permission to get it wrong, to try again, to not know, to let it be easy. I saw sparks. I saw connection blooming between strangers. Honesty and courage showing up in all kinds of beautiful ways. I saw love.

That’s the part I’m holding on to.

To our guests: you brave, bright souls who came with open hearts and willing hands, you brought the colour. You shared your stories, your tears, your humour, and your wild, rad courage. You painted with abandon. You nestled in. You breathed deep. You listened, held space, and showed up for one another in a way that made the whole week feel sacred.

You reminded me, once again, why I do this.

And behind it all was my cherished team….
Rachel and Alice were in the kitchen. making the kind of food that doesn’t just feed you, it restores you. Always moving, always laughing (and yes, bickering too) through the steam and the clatter. Sue arrived with armfuls of flowers from her garden that filled our rooms with beauty, and floated between spaces and conversations like a butterfly. She had a gentle hand on everything and everyone. My brother Rob and Dad helped prepare the gardens in the weeks leading up, mowing lawns and hauling mulch. And last but not least, Pete: never centre stage, but absolutely everything unfolds, because he’s there.

Thanks to every one of you. I may lead the retreat, but you all carry it.

And to you, my followers, thank you for cheering me on and for reading this, wherever you are. Truly. You are part of this, too.

It’s not a solo act. It’s a symphony.

Love, Laura xo

NOW.

A few good souls have left us this month, and we’ve seen some close calls with a few others we hold dear. It’s left me thinking about time, and how easily we forget that it’s not a given.

I saw this post on Instagram the other day, maybe you did too, the one that says:

“Love your fcking life. Take pictures of everything. Do things you’re scared to do. Make your life the best story in the world. Don’t waste that sht.”

I’m not sure who said it and it’s lofty, I know, but it hit me. Because YES!

Because we forget that nothing is truly promised, and slip into autopilot, carelessly postponing, or waiting for the just the right time. We save the good china or that special bottle for someday. We put off the important thing until tomorrow. We delay the celebration, hold back the words, promising ourselves we’ll say it next time, we’ll have the chance.

Around my 50th birthday, my friend Shelley asked me what my word was—the word that would carry me into this next chapter. Without thinking, I said “now.” On that birthday, she gave me a beautiful, gold necklace with that very word engraved on it. Just three little letters, but they pack a punch. I wear it every day, and it serves as a reminder not to let fear, doubt, or busyness stall me. A reminder to paint what I’m afraid to paint. To gather my people and plan the celebration. To say “yes” to the trip. To use the good glassware. To finish that retreat book. To take that new path in the forest. To say the thing that’s been stuck in my throat.

Because, as my endlessly inspiring friend, Laura Bradbury says, "life doesn’t promise us later”. 

Love, Laura

There's Something Off About This Story

Quite a few years back at one of our early Metchosin retreats, a gentleman came to paint with us. He was very well known in our community, successful by all measures, with an accomplished and celebrated career in business. The kind of man who’d done the thing and was highly regarded for it. And there he was, quietly and curiously showing up for a painting retreat with his lovely wife.

He hadn’t picked up a brush since he was a young child, yet he was engaged and open. I showed the group some simple techniques to get started and encouraged him to just play. No expectations, no pressure. Just paint. And after a short while, he joyfully disappeared into his canvas.

We spent the next two days exploring colour and shape, completely immersed. We painted, we ate, we laughed and shared stories, but I had no idea he’d tapped into something deeply personal and long overdue.

I don’t ever know the full impact of a retreat until the very last day, if at all. Sometimes, as things are wrapping up, a few guests will choose to share their story with the group. Other times, they’ll reach out privately, days or even months later. And some never say a word.

But at the end of that weekend, this lovely man stood up and told the group his story.

He shared that, for as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to paint. Always. But as a young boy, he’d been told he wasn’t any good at it. That he couldn’t draw, and that he shouldn’t waste his time. He was young and impressionable, and he believed it, wholeheartedly. He was nudged and expected to excel in more ‘appropriate’ things, and the belief that he was not creative shaped the path of his life.

He said that during the retreat, I told him, “You can change your story.”

For him, that was the part that stuck. And he did change his story. He went home and converted an outbuilding into a painting studio. And he still paints, regularly and passionately. He’s an artist. And here’s the thing: he wasn’t twenty. He was probably in his sixties at the time. Which made it all the more beautiful and all the more urgent.

We see this all the time, don’t we? People carrying stories about themselves that are no longer true, or never were. Stories given to them, forced on them, whispered quietly enough times that they stuck. And they limit us. Hold us back. Keep us “safe”, but oh so small.

You know the kind of stories I mean…
“Who do I think I am?”
“I can’t ask for help.”
“I don’t know how.”
“I’d love to, but I could never do that.”
‘I don’t have the time.”

Stories that feel like truth, but are actually just grooves we’ve worn into our record.

The truth is: we all have these stories. I’ve been digging around in mine lately, dragging them into the light and asking if they’re actually true. Some of them are not. Some never were. So I’ve decided to toss them out.

It’s time. And I have work to do.

Love, Laura. xo

Thanks for reading and for being here with me.
If someone you know might connect with this story, please pass it on. You’re helping build this community. And if you’ve been craving a creative reset or just some space to breathe and be, come join me on one of our upcoming retreats. There’s a little room in our September Salt Spring Island Retreat and gorgeous Sicily in October!

In Defence of Quitting

When I was growing up, my parents had this quiet, unconventional wisdom, though I’m not sure it was intentional, or if they even recognized it as wisdom at the time.

Simply put, they let me quit. If I started something extracurricular, like piano lessons, volleyball, Brownies (ugh), and later decided I really didn’t like doing it, I was allowed to stop. There was no guilt trip, no forced “you have to finish the year” talk. “No, you made a commitment” lecture.

If I really didn’t like going, that was reason enough to stop.

And I wasn’t bouncing from one thing to the next like a leaf in the wind. I loved skating and practised for a long time. I excelled at drama and fell madly in love with dancing. I just didn’t feel pressure to push through something that didn’t feel right.

This was, I came to learn, very different from what most of my friends experienced. Many were taught to stick it out, to follow through, to prove themselves by staying. Even if their hearts were quietly crumpling in the corner.

Quite a few people I’ve come know (and many who find their way to my painting retreats) till carry this heavy thread. They stay in jobs or roles that drain them, sticking with what’s expected, what’s ‘safe,’ what looks good on paper, long after the joy has gone missing (if there ever was any to begin with). They stay put, they stick it out, some to the point of soul sucking.

In this case, I believe quitting is a radically powerful act of self-love and trust.

Quitting taught me to honour that quiet nudge inside that said, this isn’t it anymore. It helped me tune into what felt alive, what sparked my mojo and made me feel most me. To this day, quitting something doesn’t make me a failure. It makes space. It makes room for alignment, for joy, for the kind of creative energy that can’t be faked. It’s what led me to the work I do now, which I truly love. And yes, sometimes that meant leaving behind perfectly “good” things that made sense to other people.

So this is my wholehearted defence of quitting. Because when you give yourself permission to leave what doesn’t feel right, you create the possibility of discovering what does.

And thank you, Mom and Dad. Intentional or not, you taught me to honour what lights me up—to know when to walk away and when to leap.

Love,
Laura xo

“There is freedom waiting for you, on the breezes of the sky. And you ask ‘What if I fall?’ Oh but my darling, what if you fly?” — Erin Hanson

RIPPLES

Spring is springing in the studio! “Beside & All Around & Way Deep Down” 24x36 inches, “Wilder Kind of Love” 36x36 inches.

As artists, we mostly create in solitude, not knowing where our work will land or how it will be received. The moment of creation feels complete when the last brushstroke is laid, the final detail is placed. But that’s just the beginning. Our art takes on a life of its own, slipping into spaces we may never see, becoming part of someone else’s world in ways we could never imagine.

Lately, as the world gets a little bonkers, it’s easy to feel powerless, and to wonder if what we do really matters. But I’ve come to realize that one of the most important things we can do is to keep creating. To make beauty, to love that beauty, and to send it out into the world to do its quiet and mighty work.

I need you to understand that the energy you pour into your work doesn’t stop at the edges of a canvas. It moves outward, settling into homes, into hearts, into places and beautiful moments you’ll never witness. It’s easy to underestimate the power of it, but that quiet, intentional energy we pour into our craft is palpable. And that painting that may feel like "just another piece” to you might become a cherished family heirloom, or a beacon of hope for someone at times when they need it the most.

And it’s not just about art. It’s the small things too. A kind word, a smile in the supermarket, a moment of acceptance and patience when someone needs it most. These acts carry ripples. These too, have the power to shift the course of a moment in ways so profound that we’ll never see.

And isn’t that why we create? To connect. To ripple.

So please, let’s keep making. Trust that our work will find its way. You may never fully see its impact, but know that what you create today—whether it’s a painting, a gesture, or a simple act of kindness—might become someone’s constant tomorrow. We may not be able to fix everything, but we can send beauty into the world. We can send ripples. And those ripples make waves.

Thank you to those who’ve shared your stories with me. You remind me that art is alive, that it moves and grows just like we do. That is no small thing.

Love, Laura.

Consider joining me on one of my painting retreats! This season we’re here in Victoria, on Salt Spring Island and in Sicily. Absolutely no painting experience necessary. If you’d like more information, here’s the link: LAURA HARRIS RETREATS

LOVE & A PIZZA FISH

My dad is a mechanical draftsman: a man of precision, structure and order. He’s also the most loving, supportive, and kind human I know (along with Mom). But he’s completely incapable of looking at something without seeing how it could be improved. It’s one of the many traits we’ve all grown to count on, and what made him a bit of a rock star in his career. In fact, they still call him in to ‘fix’ the computer-aided designs the new generation are working on (true story).

When I was little, he taught me about composition, perspective, vanishing points, shading and composition. He’d gently correct my drawings, showing me how a line should be straighter, how a shape could be more proportional, how a horse could look like an actual horse. But I wanted none of it. I didn’t want to follow the rules. I wanted to run free.

So, I made art the way I saw the world—messy, a little wild, and full of things that didn’t necessarily make sense. I’d mix dirt from our backyard into my paint, use sticks to apply paint and scrape wild patterns into the canvas. One day my dad took one look and said, "Well, what is that?"

"It’s a pizza fish," I replied without hesitation, as if that explained everything. Duh.

And the truth is, to me, it did explain everything. That pizza fish was exactly what it was meant to be, completely misshapen, with polka dots and wild colours; it was wonderful and it was mine. I was in love with it. Not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t, and I had made it. It held a piece of me, a pure and unfiltered version of my imagination. To me, it just made sense.

Sometimes we forget how to love our art like that. We start questioning it. We analyze, refine, adjust, and overwork until we either "fix" it beyond recognition or abandon it entirely. We become more concerned with whether it’s right than whether it’s ours.

I think we should let that go. It’s boring. What if we stopped trying to perfect our work and instead let ourselves fall in love with it? What if we embraced the weird, the messy, the unexpected? Not just in our art, but in life?

Loving your own art is an act of trust: trusting that your instincts are enough, that your creativity is worth everything, and that your unique voice can make a difference. And it’s remembering that the magic of creating isn’t always in the outcome, but in the act itself.

So, make the pizza fish. Love the pizza fish. Love your work even when it feels a little strange, unfinished, or uncertain. Love it because it carries your one-of-a-kind, original energy, your curiosity and your bold willingness to create something fabulous that didn’t exist before.

Love, Laura. xo

Thank you for being here, for reading and for sharing this post with people you love. I really appreciate it.

Your Weirdness Matters

Somewhere along the way, most of us learn that being “different” isn’t always celebrated. It starts young, back in elementary school, when standing out sometimes meant standing alone. We learned how to tone ourselves down, fit the mould, and suppress the things that made us unique. Maybe we laughed quieter, dressed exactly like the popular kid, or kept our little quirks hidden to avoid drawing attention. We shrank our rad selves down. And for many of us, that habit of dimming our light carried into adulthood—into relationships, our careers, and including our creative work.

Now, I believe the very “weirdness” we’ve spent years trying to tame is still there, like a rare gem, and it’s one of the best damn things about us. Our quirks, our oddities, our strange, beautiful ways of seeing the world—those are the things that make us fantastic. And the same is true for our art, whatever form that may take for you.

So many artists, whether beginners or seasoned pros, get stuck trying to make “acceptable” art. Art that fits in. Art that looks like what they think the world wants. But art is about truth, not conformity. It’s about pulling the strangest, most wonderful parts of yourself into the light and letting them shine. The world doesn’t need more sameness. It needs more colours that don’t match; more “wowzers” and “whoa”—more “what on earth is that?” moments. It needs YOU.

When you create from that deeply authentic place, the place where your “freak flag” flies high, you stop worrying about how your work will be received. You stop editing yourself for the imagined approval of others, and something magical happens: your work becomes alive. It has soul. It has depth. It speaks in a way that polished, “safe” work never could.

Your weirdness is your superpower. It’s the thing that makes your art stand out in a world tediously oversaturated with the perfectly blah and ordinary. For everyone’s sake, dare a little. Make some bad art, make mistakes, throw paint and see where it lands, weave and scrape and wonder what will happen when you do. Whether it’s the colours you choose, the materials you use, or the completely unconventional ideas you bring to life—those are the things that make your art yours. And the world is hungry for it. Not everyone will understand it, and that’s sooo okay. Art isn’t meant to please everyone; it’s meant to connect with those who do get it. And they will.

So let’s embrace the bizarre. Lean into different. Take chances. Make mistakes. Make a mess. Say the thing. Sing the song. Mix patterns. Be your whole, strange, f’n fantastical self, in life and in your work, because that’s what the world needs. It needs you, raw and unfiltered.

Happy New Year, Everyone.

A Beautiful & Unexpected Year

As I reflect on this past year, two words rise to the surface: gratitude and surrender. It has been a year of unexpected turns, one that didn’t unfold the way I planned, but one that has taught me to let go and trust the process. And in letting go, once again, I’ve found something surprising.

The year began with big energy and intention, fuelled by plans and dreams I was excited to bring to life. But life, as it does, had its own ideas. Health challenges forced me to step back from retreats and the studio, to slow down more than I would have chosen. For someone used to forging ahead, this was a lesson in patience and surrender. But in stepping back, I found space to rest, heal, and rediscover the things that matter most.

This year has reminded me how vital it is to take stock, listen to your body, and put your health and well-being first. When you do, something remarkable happens—the people who truly love and understand you rise up and help carry your load.

I’ve been reminded that creativity isn’t just about making things, it’s about really connecting to oneself, adapting, and finding beauty even when plans change. It’s about all-mighty resilience, about showing up wholeheartedly when you can and completely letting go when you really need to.

Looking ahead, I feel truly grateful for the lessons, the challenges, and the bright spots that have made this year what it was. I’m feeling better than I have in months and I’m hopeful for what’s to come, for the energy and ideas stirring within me and for the opportunity to continue sharing this journey with you. Please stay tuned. There are some gorgeous things to come, promise!

Thank you for being here, for reading and for being part of this community. Your presence reminds me that even in uncertain moments, there is strength, comfort and inspiration here, in the connection we share.

Wishing you a beautiful and cozy holiday season. Rest well and get ready because the New Year is all ours…….

Love,
Laura xo

Gathering Light

These days are short. When I wake up, it’s dark, and the evenings seem to come too soon. Lately I find myself chasing light—literally—trying to finish paintings in my studio or photograph images for the recipe book before daylight fades. But it’s not just the physical light I’m searching for, it’s something more.

Light isn’t just about illumination, it’s a feeling, an energy, a sense of hope and clarity. In both life and art, gathering light is essential. It’s about noticing the small moments that sustain us: the way the sun catches on a leaf, the glow of warm tones on a canvas, or the quiet realization that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, sharing a joyous moment with a dear friend.

Most mornings, after breakfast, I head out for a walk. Lately, I’ve been trying to be particularly present during these walks. I remind myself to really notice things, to take them in, and to metaphorically tuck them into my pocket for later. I take in the leaves, rich with autumn colours like rusty reds, deep oranges, and golden yellows. The way they crunch underfoot, adding a rhythm to my steps. I notice the textures around me: the coarse, rough bark of the trees, the delicate lacework of moss creeping up the trunks, the way a single leaf shakes in the breeze. Even on grey days, the silver light has a way of softening things, creating beauty in the muted tones.

It’s not just the light or the colours that inspire me, it’s the quiet resilience of nature itself. Even in the coldest, darkest days of the season, the trees stand tall, the moss continues its slow, steady sprawl: the forest hums with growth. Nature doesn’t wait for ideal conditions to flourish; it carries on. It reminds me that we, too, must continue to grow, trusting that, even during these darker days, something meaningful is taking root.

As artists, we often wait for inspiration to strike, imagining it will arrive in bold, dramatic ways. But the truth is, creativity thrives in the subtle. It shows up when we do, built from the light we’ve already gathered in those small, everyday moments. Each spark we’ve tucked away, each detail we’ve noticed, becomes part of the steady glow that eventually fills the space and guides our work forward.

For any of you walking the creative path, or simply navigating the darker days of the season, I encourage you to gather the light around you. Notice it. Hold it close. Let it build, moment by moment, until it becomes the warmth that carries you.

Laura. xo

Now is the Time to Do Our Work

The world feels impossibly loud at the moment. When it’s like this, and I don’t know how to have an impact, I get to work. I busy my hands and focus on the things I know are true, the things that remind me of who I am and why I’m here. I hit the studio, and I cook for loved ones.

In the simple act of creating, there is a silent, powerful resilience—a reminder that even in chaos, beauty and healing are within our reach. No matter where we are or what is going on, each of us has that certain something that allows us to connect back to ourselves and, through that work, connect to others. The very practices that ignite us make tiny but mighty ripples that grow and extend far beyond us, inspiring and nourishing others in ways we can’t possibly imagine.

This is no time to feel defeated, small, or to wait for permission. Get going. Get painting or writing, make some music, or cook a meal. You might not think it’s important work, but it is. These simple acts are points of hope and light in a time when people deeply need them.

Now is the time to do your work. Be brave enough to create from the heart, give what you have, and let it ripple outward. There’s no need to wait until you’re “ready” or to wonder if what you have to offer is enough. You are ready. It is more than enough, and we all need it.

Love,
Laura. xo

#makeripples #itstime #doyourwork

“In the simple act of creating, there is a silent, powerful resilience—a reminder that even in chaos, beauty and healing are within our reach.” ~Laura Harris

painting by numbers

Life wasn’t always so carefully planned. We used to let the world unfold around us and simply stumble upon things—the coolest, most unexpected things that surprised and excited us.

These days, it seems everything is curated and catalogued. We check reviews before stepping into a restaurant, research every road before we even pack, and ask for people’s Amazon gift lists so there’s no guesswork involved. Everything is pre-approved, pre-packaged, and pre-digested. We’re so conditioned to have answers at our fingertips that we’re forgetting about the pure joy in just ‘winging it’. In the process of preparing for every little bump, we’re forgetting how sweet it is to be able to detach from outcome and take a chance.

Sure, everyone loves a well-thought-out plan, but I think we’ve gone too far. The unplanned, unscripted moments ignite something within us: an energy, an aliveness that we just don’t get from perfectly planned days. When we know everything ahead of time and have a clear path laid out for us, it might feel comforting in the moment, but it’s like painting by numbers. There’s no space for the gloriously messy, the unexpected, and awesome happenstance. No space for our best, most radical new work ever.

When we take away the unknown we remove a vital part of the human experience. Embracing uncertainty builds coping skills, strengthens resilience, and, ironically, helps reduce anxiety. Yes, it’s true. We grow and evolve through experiencing the unexpected. Joy lives in that place. Knowing exactly what’s to come leaves no room for discovery. And I believe that constant need to control is making us feel less safe than ever. You can’t live fully and creatively without taking risks.

And this tidbit keeps coming to mind: we are the last generation to truly understand the power of surprise, the last to know what it was like before everything was online, and the only generation to fully understand both worlds, before and after the digital age. We are the last to know what it’s like to go into the world without a link to anyone, without a plan, head up and looking directly into the world, ready for anything.

Life isn't meant to be a rigid set of steps. Life is meant to surprise us, challenge us, and, most importantly, inspire us. So drop the plan and go for it, whatever it is. Your masterpiece won’t be found in someone else’s template.

Love,
Laura. xo

The Alchemy of Travel

Why do I host retreats? Why do I gather souls from different corners of the world and invite them to step away from the familiar and into the unknown? Well, it’s not just for the painting, the beautiful spaces or delicious meals, though those moments stay with us. It’s because travel awakens us to our true selves.

Each retreat, no matter where, is a portal, a doorway to a place where creativity isn’t just something we think about or try to practice. It’s something we become. As I, along with Finisterra Travel, lead each group, I’m always struck by the transformation that happens when we step into these new worlds. The sense of wonder, the surprise, and the subtle unravelling of the everyday tightness. That’s when we begin to remember who we really are.

Travel isn't just about getting away. It’s not just a vacation. It’s a profound act of reconnecting. When we immerse ourselves in a new landscape, taste the food, smell the air, and hear a language we don’t understand, something magical happens: our brains wake up.

It's as if each new experience, like navigating cobblestone streets, hearing the call of unfamiliar birds, getting lost in the rhythms of a foreign place, shakes us loose from the grooves we've settled into. Neuroscientists talk about neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to form new connections. It’s like stretching your creative muscles, allowing them to bend and move in ways you didn't know they could.

But the real alchemy happens when we step beyond the role of the observer. Imagine sitting in a tiny, sun-dappled village, the air heavy with the scent of fresh herbs and wood-fired bread. Before you is a simple meal, but it’s more than just food. It’s a story. One of the land, the hands that prepared it, and the generations who have done so before. This is the kind of nourishment that feeds the soul, reminding us that creativity and life’s simplest pleasures are deeply intertwined.

Leading retreats, I have the privilege of witnessing transformations that unfold so naturally yet feel nothing short of magical. I watch as people arrive, sometimes weighed down by the demands of daily life, and then, slowly, they begin to shift… the awakening, that reconnection with a part of themselves they had forgotten. It’s an absolute privilege to witness.

Then, there’s our studio time. The moment when each guest, carrying their own thoughts, emotions, and experiences, stands before that blank canvas. I’ve seen it countless times: the initial hesitation, the quiet vulnerability, and then, as the brush moves, something shifts. It’s as if each stroke is unlocking a part of themselves, allowing emotions to flow freely in a way words often can't.

Travel didn’t just broaden my horizons, it changed the very course of my life. Sitting in the vivid shadows of the Olgas in 1996, in the red heart of Australia, surrounded by the vastness of the desert. The land felt ancient, alive with stories, and as I sat there, I was overcome by a profound sense of clarity. It was as if the world had paused for a moment, and in that stillness, I was struck by a divine understanding—that absolutely everything is possible. Anything. That moment opened me up to a new way of being. It wasn’t just the landscape that shifted, it was my entire sense of self. From that point on, I knew that the only limits in life were the ones I placed on myself, and I became more determined than ever to live fully, creatively, and without fear.

Each one of our retreats is a journey, not just through breathtaking landscapes, but through the inner terrain of who we are. And I’m deeply honoured to walk that path with every single one of our guests. It’s why I continue to do this work, why I believe so deeply in the power of travel to remind us that in discovering new places, we often rediscover ourselves.

Love,
Laura. xo

I’m not a writer. Scratch that.

I'm not a writer. Not a good one, at least. That’s been my belief and the story I tell myself.

I take a long time to do it. I second-guess and rewrite almost every line and I think about what I’ll write for days before I start. Real writers don’t do that, it’s easy for them. So I come up with excuses not to do it. And then sidestepping it gives me instant relief. So then sidestepping becomes a habit, and then I’m in full-blown procrastination mode.

Similarly, people come to our painting retreats and proclaim they are not creative. This is a story they tell themselves, and it’s simply not true.

I know what’s really at play here is fear. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of making a mistake. And the biggest one of all, fear of judgment (that one's a real buzzkill). So instead, we seek perfection – we either do it perfectly or not at all. Then of course, we don’t do it at all.

One of my all-time favourite quotes is, “If you aim at nothing, you’ll hit it every time.” So, as I set out on this retreat recipe book project, I made sure to create a timeline with deadlines brightly highlighted. This would help me stay on target, for sure. But as the weeks slipped by, I stopped progressing, excuses crept in, and deadlines got moved or misplaced altogether.

I let my inner critic have her way with me – she’s a powerful beast of a thing and fear is her favourite weapon. Not really realizing it, I became afraid of the bigness of it all... of not knowing what the heck I’m doing… of not meeting people's expectations or worse, not meeting mine. “Who am I to be writing a recipe book? I’m not a chef and I’m not a writer!”

Recognizing this old pattern of mine, a close friend suggested I take a week away to completely dedicate myself to the project. I could spend it at her beautiful Gulf Island home, where I’d be free from the day-to-day lists and convenient excuses, and could completely immerse myself in the process of writing. 

So, I did it. I packed up, left a list of all the things that needed tending and feeding, and headed to the island. I set up my computer on the dining table overlooking the ocean and lavender. Just me and the honey bees, working madly on our deadlines. It felt amazing. I got my head down and I WROTE. A lot. I told my inner critic to “bugger off.” I was a writer and I had work to do and my unique process was not her concern.

My breaks were forest walks and cold saltwater swims. We met up in the evening, prepared meals out of the recipe book and chatted about the things that we needed help lifting or shifting or celebrating. Pete even popped over for dinner one night then left in the morning, not wanting to interrupt the flow. 

In that dedicated space, I felt the layers of all the “what if,” “what should be,” “could be,” and “if only” melt away and I started to feel assured, supported and hella-capable. And the critic fell silent.

So, I’ve decided I’m a writer, maybe even a recipe book writer.

Love,
Laura. xo

P.S. If you have people around you that sing backup for your inner critic, find some new people.

P.P.S. Thank you, my dear friends and family for creating every opportunity for me to fly, no matter how crazy and long the flightpath.

LOOK UP

A few months back, during some downtime, I found myself reflecting on the last time inspiration came effortlessly and creativity flowed freely.

Honestly, it was in the years before my cell phone.

Before the always-present, always-on, constant connection. Before the dings and buzzes, the texts and emails, the Instagram messages, Facebook posts, and step tracking. It was long before I felt like I had to respond to every little thing immediately, every time; before I took my iPhone everywhere, even in the forest (I mean, you never know when you’re going to get kidnapped, right?); before I took my iPhone into my studio to listen to a podcast or to zoom here and there.

In the before times, I remember feeling full of ideas and boundless creativity. I was always making things, all sorts of things. I was plugged-in, connected, and inspired. I listened and I was interested. I had room for it all. It was good back then. I had energy and was grounded in some good fertile soil.

So…

I’ve been putting my phone down more and more, and looking up. I stopped wearing my Apple Watch, which I mainly used to track my movement (I mean, geez Laura, you’re either moving or you’re not, figure it out). I’ve stopped with the podcasts and started reading books again and listening to more music, even breaking out the vinyl. I’m getting lost in the garden and the trees, no phone in sight. I’m sitting quietly outside with my morning coffee, just taking it all in—not streaming or surfing or browsing—just sitting.

I’ve started to see the world around me in a new, yet beautifully familiar light. Without the constant digital noise, my thoughts have room to breathe and flow. I feel more rested. Calmer. Joyful. And, my creative flame has been sparked, which, it turns out, may have just been buried under a pile of notifications and alerts.

Now, of course, cell phones are an essential part of our lives, but I really needed to find balance and set boundaries. It is challenging at times, but I’m learning to make myself available to the world around me, once again. And I’m realizing that perhaps it’s not about seeking creativity and inspiration, but rather about creating the space for it to come and find you.

Love,
Laura. xo

"Feeling stuck? For goodness’ sake, give yourself a chance and put down your cell phone. Look up. Connect with yourself and others. Connect with the wild grasses and tall trees. It’s all there waiting for you, and it’s magnificent." ~Laura Harris

#lauraharrisretreats #whowereyoubeforeyourcellphone