Sitting With It Long Enough: Starting Over in a Historic Vermont Farmhouse

If you’ve been following along for a while, you may have noticed that I’ve been unusually quiet.

If you’re new or need a refresh, here you go:

The short version is that my family (and art studio) had to unexpectedly move this past winter; we transitioned from a cozy apartment in the center of town to a historic farmhouse in need of a gut renovation on two acres of gorgeous Vermont farmland.

Saying goodbye to my nice smooth walls, we packed up for the farmhouse in the dead of winter (we moved out the week before Christmas).

The longer version is that the past six months of my life have included a surprisingly broad education: how to cook with no stove, why one should not feed the stray goat, and how to guess the age of a nail by the shape of its head. Also: the best place to stand with a hot morning coffee, the hour when afternoon light hits the old walls just right, and the particular colors of a place slowly becoming home.

Moving into this fixer-upper is a lifelong family project. Here's a picture of the day we moved in. Over the coming months the kids even helped paint this room and it looks pretty OKAY now! One of many rooms that needs a good refresh.

There has been painting (but on walls, not canvas). There has been demolition, repairs, unexpected discoveries, and the occasional moment of standing in the middle of a room while holding a chicken and wondering what exactly I've gotten myself into.

In the midst of all of that, something even more unexpected happened: the way I think about making work changed.

For years I’ve worked with pigments and materials gathered from places I visited in short bursts and quick adventures. Now I find myself slowly getting to know a place that I hope will be home for a very long time. This house has been here for literally hundreds of years...its bones hold stories I'll never know, whispered in voices I'll never hear.

I’ve spent the spring wandering the property collecting questions.

What color hides inside the rocks in the field?

Can the verdigris from an abandoned copper pipe become part of a painting?

Is that the oldest apple tree I've ever seen?

Will the irises I transplanted survive to bloom again?

Spring came and surprised me with daffodils. We got baby chicks even though we had no business doing so with the house in the shape it is. But it makes me happy beyond words to hear their little chirps and I regret nothing.

Though my studio practice has slowed down considerably, I’ve begun taking a year-long lake pigment course through Plants & Color, formalizing my training in the realm of natural pigments, while quietly paying attention to what already exists here: goldenrod, old fences, forgotten corners of the barn, and the countless small things that reveal themselves only after you’ve sat somewhere long enough to notice them.

I took a pause from scrubbing the kitchen floor to experience this miracle of a rainbow in my new backyard. the closer I look, the more miracles I notice.

At the same time, I’ve been planting for the future.

An indigo patch.

Black scabiosa.

Wildflowers scattered over a pile of rubble behind the barn in what may be either a thoughtful ecological restoration project or an extremely optimistic gardening experiment.

Possibly both.

Before and after of the painted floors, packing up a painting order, and my son exploring spring puddles with his new kitten.

This season has also required me to devote much of my energy to supporting my autistic son through a transition that has been challenging for him in ways we couldn’t fully anticipate. It has meant less time in the new (old) barn studio than I would like and a lot more flexibility than I naturally possess.

But if Growing in Process has taught me anything, it’s that the most beautiful marks are made through an openness to making mistakes, chance encounters have the potential to change our hearts forever, and journeys sometimes require us to take the path less traveled.

Sometimes the work is making a painting.

Sometimes the work is learning a landscape.

Sometimes the work is helping someone you love feel safe enough to grow.

And sometimes the work is simply allowing life to be messy and flawed and raw, and sitting with it long enough that you start to be able to give the chaos some meaning.

The view! The chickens growing up! The flowers growing too! so much to be thankful for...

I’m looking forward to sharing more of this place, the colors I’m discovering, and the work that emerges from it in the months and years ahead. Thank you for being here. Thank you for your patience and for your investment of time, of care, and of encouragement over these past challenging months.

as ever, happy trails,

Mira

Artist, Growing In Process