It’s been a while since I last wrote here in my little online journal. Long enough for seasons of life to continue shifting quietly beneath my feet. Long enough for beauty and grief to intertwine so tightly that I no longer try to separate them. Long enough to realise that creativity is not something I do when life is easy – it’s often the very thing that carries me through when life is definitely not.

Over the past months, I’ve been creating more art using traditional art mediums than ever before – mainly because after so many years of teaching and creating digital art, my hands are paying for it. I find that traditional methods don’t give me as much pain as when I’m constantly using a computer.

I’ve been painting canvases, drawing on paper, hand writing in a journal. Some pieces arrived through joy. Others through heartbreak, exhaustion, uncertainty, healing, awe, or moments I still don’t even fully have words for. I think that’s what art is for me – a language for holding all the contradictions. A way to honour the strange coexistence of gratitude and sorrow that just seems woven into being human.

Life can be so beautiful while simultaneously breaking your heart. Somehow, both things can be true at once.

I’ve found myself wanting to mindfully slow down enough to notice the small and not-so-small mercies in my days – morning light on unfinished canvases, the silence before pen touches paper, the comfort of music drifting through the room while I work, the absolute privilege of still being able to breathe air into my lungs.

“How could I fail to be grateful to my whole life?” Friedrich Nietzsche (Philosopher 1844-1900)

Creativity is an act of gratitude for me. Not performative gratitude – not the kind that ignores pain or pretends everything is perfect. But a quieter gratitude. One that says, even here in all the imperfection, there is still beauty worth noticing. Even now, there is still something worth creating. Even through suffering, life continues offering moments of grace and joy.

I think so many of us are carrying far more than we let on. We’re navigating loss, change, uncertainty, longing, desperate hope, and all the invisible things that make us human.

Why would I regret anything I’ve done, created or experienced in my life? After all, every experience – whether good or bad – has shaped my life and made me who I am today. And what a life! In all its imperfection, I would not swap my life for anyone or anything. I love my life. I love my home that keeps me safe and warm. I love my family, who love me unconditionally. I love my body for everything it has endured over the years – for keeping my heart beating, air in my lungs, and every cell fighting each day to keep me alive on this beautiful planet.

If there’s one thing I want this post to offer, it’s simply this:

You don’t have to wait until life feels fully resolved to create, to dream, or to make plans for your future. You don’t have to become completely healed before allowing yourself moments of joy. And you don’t have to deny your suffering in order to live with gratitude.

Some of the most meaningful parts of being human come from learning how to hold opposite experiences at the same time – happiness and sadness, laughter and tears, grief and love, uncertainty and hope, endings and beginnings.

Today, I wanted to share a few glimpses of what I’ve been up to lately – recent artworks, writings and other projects that have been filling this season of life.

First, I’m sharing a photo of the very first dahlia I’ve grown in my garden. I’m ridiculously proud of it, especially because I’m notoriously terrible at gardening – which feels slightly tragic for someone so completely flower-obsessed. I particularly love dahlias because they remind me of my dad. I still remember him once saying how beautiful these flowers were, so seeing this bloom feels deeply connected to him somehow. And for my very first flower to turn out like this – it honestly feels incredible.

Miracle Dahlia

It came from a cutting from my childhood garden. The dahlias in Mum and Dad’s garden were always entirely crimson, but this one bloomed half pink and half deep crimson, as though it carries both something familiar and something entirely new. It feels almost like a little miracle – a quiet message  reminding me that beauty can emerge through imperfections, unexpected changes, and even creative mistakes.

As I’m writing this, it’s Mother’s Day in Australia tomorrow – and boy oh boy, am I reminded how blessed and grateful I am to still have my beautiful Mum here … we’re celebrating her 95th year around the sun this weekend too!!  A reminder to treasure our loved ones and hold dear each and every moment we have with them, because it’s never long enough.

I’d like to share a poem that came to me during one of those quiet late-night moments of grief – when the ache of missing loved ones who are gone, feels a little less likely to completely overwhelm you if it’s given a place to live in words on a page …

Wishing You Peace

Words catch in my throat –
you’re gone before they form.

Could the white butterfly, flitting by, be you?
Were you on the mountaintop,
waving joy into the wind?

Did your eyes find the same northern lights I found?
Did you whisper to the bear cub
to peek from behind the trees?

Tell me our loved ones
welcomed you home –
safe, and just as I imagined.

If wishes still held weight,
I’d trade them all
for one more moment here –
on this hallowed ground, with you.

To hear you speak my name –
just once more.
Instead, I wish you peace –
the peace you earned.

Grief is one of the few unavoidable human experiences, and because it touches every life in one form or another, it has the power to connect us – reminding us that we’re not alone in our sorrow, but part of a shared human experience that allows us to empathise deeply with one another. I hope that by sharing my poem, it might bring comfort to someone else navigating grief and remind you that you’re not alone.

Perhaps healing is not the removal of sorrow, but learning how to carry it gently. Perhaps gratitude is not the denial of suffering, but the willingness to keep noticing how light still enters the room. And perhaps art (whether painting, poetry, music or whatever artistic form) exists because some feelings can’t survive inside silence alone.

Now to some recent paintings and how I got there, and some other creative bits & pieces…

Moments Kept: The Process

Held With Care: From Sketch to Canvas

Journal page about being grateful for the ‘small things’

Proud Public Art moment (click on image to see more)

Something I’m truly excited about – I finally have a dedicated creative studio, and it’s a beautiful, light-filled space that almost feels sacred. It has already become such a special place for creating. You can watch the quick before-and-after video of the transformation below…

To everyone still subscribed here after my long absence – thank you. Truly. The internet can feel fleeting and noisy sometimes, so I never take your presence, kindness, encouragement, or quiet support for granted. The fact that you spend even a few moments engaging with my work means more to me than I can properly express.

As a small gift, I’ve created ‘Grateful’ for you – an A4 printable artwork for you to download. Grateful is a gentle reminder to slow down and appreciate the beauty in everyday moments – the big things, the small things, and everything in between. Featuring a cheerful cockatoo riding atop a basket full of blooms, this piece was created to bring a little joy, warmth and gratitude into your space.

Just click on the image below to download – you can print it for your wall, journal, studio space, or wherever you might need a quiet reminder to keep finding beauty amid the complexity of life. I’d absolutely love to see where it finds a home – feel free to share a photo with me on Instagram or send it to me via email – it would  genuinely make my day.

Grateful by Jennifer Reid – click on image to download

Thank you for being here.

Never stop dreaming, and never stop creating beauty in your own way – whatever form that may take.

With love and gratitude,

Jennifer xo

P.S. Be sure to stay in the loop on my latest work, studio updates, and musings – if you haven’t already, subscribe to my newsletter here and be the first to know whenever something new is published!