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Pillar and Post Wedding

Nov 6, 2018

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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When I was forced into stillness—knee up, life slo When I was forced into stillness—knee up, life slowed down, the outside world suddenly less loud—I didn’t just recover physically. I entered a long, quiet conversation with myself. And in that isolation, I started arriving at truths I hadn’t been able to hear before. Because there’s something about silence… real silence… that doesn’t just calm you. It reveals you. It strips away all the external influence, all the noise, all the ways we unconsciously shape ourselves to be perceived, accepted, understood. And what I came to understand is this: I hadn’t been fully sharing my life—not because I wasn’t creating, but because I didn’t feel safe enough to be seen in my full vulnerability. I was still photographing. Still writing. Still building entire worlds of thought, emotion, and imagery behind the scenes of my life. There was a depth of creation happening in private that no one has yet seen. I wasn’t bringing it forward. I was choosing that. Because somewhere along the way, I have had to learn to protect my expression. To hold it back. To keep parts of myself contained—not because they weren’t real, but because they felt too exposed, too personal, too open to be held safely by the world. And I know I’m not alone in that. I think many of us create far more than we share. We live entire inner lives that never make it to the surface. We birth ideas, emotions, art, and truth in private spaces… while only showing fragments of who we really are. But here’s what this season taught me—something I now carry forward as both truth and invitation: Your silence is not emptiness. Your private becoming is not wasted. And your hesitation to be seen does not mean your voice is any less powerful. Sometimes we don’t share not because we lack courage, but because we are still learning what safety feels like within our own expression. And maybe the invitation in all of this… is not to rush into being fully seen, but to gently ask ourselves where we are ready to be a little more honest, a little more visible, a little more real. Because I’m realizing that cocoon that holds you for a bit matters a great deal to your story. 🐛🦋
Day one? Or one day? — you decide 🤍time does not Day one? Or one day? — you decide 🤍time does not pause to witness your hesitation, it slips through your fingers like water, asking nothing, taking everything. It is not waiting for your perfect moment, only moving—quiet, constant, unforgiving to delay. And the idea of “being ready” is nothing more than a myth people chase. ✍🏻
✍🏻 Making soup is life in a pot. Not the pretty ve ✍🏻 Making soup is life in a pot. Not the pretty version— the real one. The kind where everything you’ve carried gets thrown in— the tender parts, the hardened edges, the bitterness you tried to hide, the sweetness you were afraid to claim. It all goes in. At first, nothing makes sense. It’s messy. Too much of this, not enough of that. Pieces floating, colliding, refusing to become anything but themselves. And there’s a moment— a very real, human moment— where you want to fix it. Force it. Control it. Tear it apart and start over. But surrender doesn’t look like perfection. It looks like staying. It looks like standing in the in-between, where nothing is finished, nothing is certain, and still choosing not to interfere. So you let it simmer. You let the heat touch everything you once tried to protect. You let time do what your hands cannot. And slowly—almost painfully slow— things begin to break down. The sharpness softens. The bitterness spreads out, no longer overwhelming, just… part of the whole. The sweetness deepens, no longer fragile, but rooted. And somewhere in that quiet unraveling, you realize— surrender is not gentle. It is not passive. It is the courage to let something change you without knowing who you’ll be on the other side. It is trusting that even in the mess, even in the waiting, even in the moments that feel like too much— something sacred is happening. You don’t rush it. You don’t rescue it. You don’t abandon it. You stay. You stir when needed. And sometimes… you don’t touch it at all. And what comes from that— what rises from that— is something you could have never forced into existence. Richer. Deeper. Honest. Not perfect— but real. And in that raw, slow becoming, you don’t just taste the beauty of life— you taste yourself as you truly are. 🤍 Jess Little
✍🏻She Kept Moving … There were days she couldn’t ✍🏻She Kept Moving … There were days she couldn’t recognize herself— just a body moving through something heavy with no name. The light felt far. Joy felt borrowed. Even breathing felt like work. But she didn’t stop. She moved— not gracefully, not consistently, but enough. Enough to write when the words burned. Enough to create when it felt pointless. Enough to stay when leaving herself would’ve been easier. No one clapped for that. No one saw how she became her own witness, her own safe place, her own reason to keep going. She learned you don’t wait for the darkness to lift— you move through it. Slowly. Honestly. Anyway. And somewhere in that quiet persistence… she softened. she opened. she returned. Not healed. Not finished. But alive again. And that— that is how she bloomed. ✍🏻Jess Little
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