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, raw, 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—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—still 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 tilts a little sideways, it’s easy to feel powerless—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—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 trembles in the breeze. Even on grey days, the silvery light has a way of softening the world, 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 climb, and the forest hums with a quiet determination. Nature doesn’t wait for ideal conditions to flourish; it carries on, adapting, resting, and enduring. It reminds me that we, too, must continue to grow—trusting that, even during these darker days, something meaningful is quietly 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, often quietly at first, 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.

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—it’s 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—leaving what we know and stepping into something new—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 unraveling 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. Our busy lives tend to make us forget the person we once knew—the curious one, the daring one, the one who sought out beauty in every corner. 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—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—and that's precisely what happens during travel. 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. Around you, the gentle hum of life goes on—the clink of glasses, the laughter of locals, and the distant toll of a church bell. 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. Each bite is an immersion into the culture, a celebration of flavours you didn’t know could exist. It’s not just the taste that moves you—it’s the way time seems to slow, the way the earth feels closer, and how, in that moment, you’re connected to something far greater than yourself. 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—almost imperceptibly at first—they begin to shift. Maybe it’s the way the Tuscan light falls in the evening, or the laughter shared over a meal prepared by hands that know the land. Maybe it’s a quiet moment in the Rocky Mountains, where the stillness speaks louder than words. But it happens, every time: that 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. It’s no longer just about creating art—it’s a personal conversation between the soul and the colours waiting to emerge. 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’. I had the time and space to do it 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

The Gift of Being Stuck

I’ve been stuck. Creatively blocked, uninspired, tired, unmotivated—there are many ways to say it, but it’s all part of the same pile of ‘uck’. It snuck in slowly, like a dark cloud over my shoulder. In November, I was on fire. Then, sometime after the holidays, I started to feel like I was missing a certain spark. My desire to go into the studio was low, and when I did go, a lot of time was spent making mud. Certain nothing good would come of toughing it out, I’d turn out the lights and quietly get on with the other business of the day.

I would speak with my galleries and friends: “I’m so frustrated. I don’t know, is it hormones? I can’t deliver. I feel like I’m getting old. I just don’t have the passion for it. I think I’ve lost my mojo. Why can’t I just do it? I need to find my spark. Maybe I should just focus on my other projects. I’m kind of numb.”

Months went by. I generally avoided the studio, trying not to worry about the fact that my production is directly linked to my income. I listened to my trusty little voice that said, “Rest up, it’s going to be okay.” I walked in the forest and dedicated my time to desk projects, yard work and retreat planning.

Most importantly, I became completely available to our beloved senior dog, Chester. I barely left his side for the last few months of his long life. I navigated his pathways, carried him upstairs, and steered him around obstacles. I prepared his favorite meals on demand, bathed him, and made sure he had his little brown sweater on when it was cold. We napped wrapped up together almost every day and went to bed early every night. He was my constant companion in life, my shadow. Now it was my turn to follow him. When he left us, it took quite a long while, but I was able to grieve him fully and completely.

I’ve always known that slumps, creative or otherwise, are a natural part of the human experience. They mysteriously come and go for all of us on some level. As much as we try to understand them, dealing with them can be challenging and scary. They can stem from various factors, including burnout, stress, grief, or even the lack of a clear deadline or goal, such as a scheduled solo show. Hmmm, now there’s something to that—this was the first time in over 23 years that I did not have a winter solo show. Noted.

Whatever the cause of my block—most likely a perfect storm of various factors—I can now look back and see it as a true gift.

Slowly, I’m beginning to hear the call of the studio and feel the tingle of inspiration returning. The slump is ending as mysteriously as it started and I’m excited to get to work. For anyone reading this from the depths of “stuck,” know that you’re not alone. I’ve been there, and I’m just beginning to see light at the end of a pretty long tunnel. Some helpful strategies include giving yourself a deadline, changing your environment, seeking new sources of inspiration, experimenting without pressure, and setting small, achievable goals.

Or maybe just rest in it awhile. Accept it. Be kind to yourself, be present and trust that the spark never truly goes out. It’s always there, waiting.

Love,
Laura. xo

CREATIVE BONES

“I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

I hear this a lot. And I don’t buy it. Not for a second.

How and when did we start believing we weren't creative? More importantly, who convinced us of this, and why did we accept it? Hmmm, should I even begin to go there? No, I’ll pin that topic for another time and keep this simple.

Look, every single one of us is radically creative. Right from the start, creativity is part of our DNA – it actually is in our bones and it sticks with us, growing and evolving as we do. Imagine it as an invisible toolbox we all carry around, full of bright ideas and unique solutions, ready for whenever we hit a snag or just want to make things more exciting.

It isn't just about being able to paint a masterpiece or write a hit song. It's about problem-solving, it's about seeing things in a new light, and it's about expressing yourself in ways that feel right to you. Whether you're finding a way to streamline a spreadsheet or figuring out how to make dinner with three random ingredients left in the fridge, that's creativity. Accountant? Creative. Engineer? Creative. Surgeon? Creative. Gardening? Yup, creative. It doesn't matter what you do for a living or how you spend your time; your creativity is at play every single day, and it’s powerful.

When you recognize, honour and expand your own creative spark, you can seriously boost your mental health. It can help you de-stress, reduce anxiety, make you more joyful and perk up your mojo. When you're in that zone, totally absorbed in what you're doing, that's called being in a flow state, and that’s a really good place to be. A creative mindset will help you look at things from different angles and come up with solutions you might not have considered otherwise. And in today's world, where change is the only constant, that kind of adaptability is golden – it’s pretty much your secret weapon for navigating life.

So please don't sell yourself short by saying you're not creative. You are. We all are. Full stop.

Love,
Laura. xo

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Our painting retreats are designed to spark the creative in all of us and they are for everyone, amateurs and pros alike. We prepare delicious and nourishing food, we get messy, paint freely, breathe deeply, discover a fantastic soundtrack, laugh, and remember what it feels like to let go.

This season’s retreats are full, but there’s sooo much more on the horizon including retreats here on the West Coast of Canada, France and Tuscany (oh yes!)

JOIN THE RETREAT MAILING LIST

IT'S JUST F***ING PAINT

At every one of my Beautifully Imperfect Painting Retreats, this sentiment is boldly scribbled on a chalkboard somewhere front and center. This mantra is more than a casual remark; it embodies a philosophy that resonates far beyond the retreats. Imagine embracing all of our projects from a position where there is no right or wrong, no bad. In this mindset, creating something becomes an exhilarating journey with no rules where the process itself is the destination, and the ‘mess-ups’ maybe – just maybe – lead us to our best work yet.

Often, when we imagine starting something, that little voice in our heads is ready to tell us it’s not going to work out. For creatives, negative self-talk can be particularly debilitating, often completely stifling our creativity and wonder. I think creative souls are particularly prone to negative self-talk due to the personal nature of our work and the vulnerability involved in sharing our inner world with the outer world. It can be a scary notion, and that little voice waits for just the right moment to whisper, “You’re not good enough.”

Well, that voice? It’s not the boss of us. We need to tell it to bugger off, detach from the outcome, and start the work.

There is no wrong! And when there is no wrong, everything is possible—each brush stroke, every scribbled word, each musical note is not merely constructive but an act of pure, unadulterated joy that strikes at the very core of who we are and, in some cases, awakens us to who we used to be. 

No matter the medium, we’re not creating to win; we’re creating to FEEL something. So just go for it. I mean, really, it’s just f***ing paint.

Love,
Laura. xo
#itsjustf***ingpaint #gomakeamess.

LET'S GET TO WORK

I’ve always been fascinated by people that seem to defy the conventional aging narrative. Those individuals who, rather than conforming to societal expectations, actually get cooler with age. You know the ones. Embracing every passing year they continue to evolve, expand, reinvent. They look radiant, they’re interested and interesting… some might say fearless.

But we all know that no one is fearless. It’s humanly impossible. There are just those who know how to feel the fear and do it anyways. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us what we have to do. The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it. The more fear we have about a certain project or goal, the more it's a sign that this thing really matters to us and it’s exactly what we need to create time for.

Where there’s fear, there’s almost certainly procrastination. And what follows is a habit of delaying; accepting things as they are; staying safe rather than soaring… you know the drill.

But right this moment no matter our age or circumstance, we’ve got the chance to switch it up. Look at what areas we’ve felt paralyzed with fear… the blank canvases; the books we haven’t written; the projects we’ve delayed; the conversations we’ve longed to have; dreams we’ve tucked away. This very second, we can break free from the confines of the familiar, look at what we’ve been resisting AND GET TO WORK.

It’s time. I mean really… if not now, when? 

*Please pass this along to anyone you know who may find it interesting. As always, much thanks.

A Message from Ten Years Ago

The topic of connection, belonging and creative practice has been coming up a lot for me lately. As I take on this new year and dream up some fresh events and retreats, I’m reminded of this entry from almost ten years ago. I still feel every word of it strongly, so I thought I’d share it again. xo

FINDING HOME

– originally posted November 2014 –

In this moment I am feeling pretty grateful. Shocking really, given the myriad of challenges I’ve been handed this month… relocating home, studio and heart (to state the obvious).

Last week I presented at a Sparkfly event hosted by Pam Lewis at Nourish Bistro… a little, inspired space nestled sweetly in the country. When Pam and I first spoke about presenting, I hesitated given the timing of the event and the looming demands related to all the things mentioned above, but I said yes The theme was ‘connection’. The plan was to set up a little corner easel and canvas, crank the music and let the paint fly (like no one’s watching), and then we’d all have a little chat.

What I couldn’t have imagined was the undeniable, vibrational, energetic, magnetically good shit that occurred. After my nervous hand calmed, the music came in and moved my brush – I was in the zone. I was certainly aware of everyone behind me, but they were with me, along for the ride, on board and connected. When the music stopped and I turned around, the emotion was palpable. Some wiped away tears, some sat silent, and beaming smiles lit up the room. I was shown, once again the power of this little thing I do… something far beyond me.

If you were to ask what I know for sure, I’d say this: recognizing and honouring your own creative spark will lead you… whether it’s painting, cooking, gardening, writing, singing, accounting, whatever truly floats your boat. It will open you, lift you, free you, and most importantly connect you… to yourself, to your purpose, to the highest love, and to all those who champion you. It will bring you home to your very core.

So there you have it – I’m grateful for the fact that no matter what is going on in my life, no matter where I am (interim studio or Nourish Bistro) I can pick up a brush and instantly find ‘home’. 

“Recognize what brings you joy… crave it, honour it, practice it. It will lead you.”  Laura Harris