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.
