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Jul 5, 2019

Explorations in Art, Spirit & Life

Welcome

These are my field notes — observations gathered from the landscapes of life and work. This is where art, soul, and lived experience intersect.
You’ll find poetry, imagery, reflections on energy and spirit, and the quiet documentation of a life being shaped with care. Read slowly. Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t.
This space is for the curious, the contemplative, and the creatively alive. — Jess

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Stop trying to make yourself digestible. You were Stop trying to make yourself digestible. You were never meant to fit in one box. Be the paradox. Be the masterpiece. Be all of you. 🤟🏻😝🤟🏻
There is a heaviness we learn to carry like it bel There is a heaviness we learn to carry like it belongs to us— like our bones were built for burden, like our chest was meant to hold storms. We get so used to the weight we stop asking who put it there. We call it love. We call it patience. We call it “I can handle this.” But then something shifts— not loudly, not all at once— just a quiet, undeniable noticing. Who sat beside me… and who watched? Who reached out their hands when I was drowning in it, and who stood at the edge throwing more water in just to see if I’d sink? Because let’s be honest— there are people who will witness your suffering with empty eyes, or worse— with a kind of comfort that it isn’t them. They’ll shake more pain into your life like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing, like your breaking point is just another place to stand. And that kind of person— no matter how familiar, no matter how loved, no matter how long— is not safe. There is truth in that. Sharp. Unforgiving. Necessary. Because love doesn’t watch you unravel and call it your fault. Love doesn’t stay silent when you’re clearly hurting. Love doesn’t add weight to someone already on their knees. So now you stand there— tired, yes— but seeing. Seeing who held you, and who helped break you. And maybe the heaviest thing of all is realizing you don’t have to carry this anymore. 🤍
Art is subjective because its purpose was never to Art is subjective because its purpose was never to be liked by everyone — it was meant to make you feel something. The pieces that stay with people are the ones that crack something open inside of them. Emotion isn’t weakness. In a world obsessed with numbness and detachment, feeling deeply is its own kind of bravery. What do you think?
I have been so many women inside one lifetime. Th I have been so many women inside one lifetime. The soft one. The shattered one. The one who stayed too long. The one who finally left. The one who buried her voice just to survive. And the one learning to share again. Life keeps peeling me open — layer by layer, grief by grief, truth by truth — until I meet another version of myself waiting underneath it all. And somehow… all of her makes sense. Because we are not the wounds. We are what we built with our bare hands after the wreckage. Not the breaking — the becoming. ✍🏻 Jess Little
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