“First Things First, Wiggle Your Big Toe.”

It sounds almost ridiculous, doesn’t it? Wiggle your big toe. An action as ordinary as blinking, as forgettable as snapping your fingers. And yet, for me, wiggle your big toe has become one of the most important things I tell myself.

Because it isn’t about the toe. It’s about proof. Proof that I can still move when everything in me feels heavy. Proof that being stuck doesn’t have to last. The toe is just the smallest possible starting point. Once it moves, something else can.

Truth be told, while I’m sharing this entry with you, I’m writing it because I need the reminder. Typing out, wiggle your big toe is my wiggle your big toe moment today.

I learned this during a very challenging time in my life, my world had been flipped upside down, my body was fighting me. Nearly everyday for three years came with the deepest feelings of fear, confusion, exhaustion, and isolation. There were mornings I lay staring at the ceiling, exhausted before the day even began. Getting dressed felt impossible. Leaving the bed, unthinkable. And yet, wiggling one toe gave me something undeniable: momentum. The tiniest spark. Enough to turn into a foot on the floor, a body upright, a day that, however imperfect, had begun.

“Through Dread We Tread, Step by Step, Till Fear Gives Way to Freedom” 20×14 - Photo composite on canvas, framed. First print.

Some days, the best you can do is wiggle that toe, maybe a little more. And that has to be enough. It is easy to be hard on yourself when you know there is so much waiting, and today it just is not happening. On days like that, wiggling your big toe matters most because it reestablishes that you still have some control, that you can still do something, even if it is not the thing you hoped to do. And so you do not just wiggle it. You wiggle it, and then you let yourself celebrate it. You give yourself the compassion and understanding that today, of all days, this small act is something to be proud of.

That lesson carries forward everywhere. It shows up in the ordinary things that somehow feel impossible: the overflowing inbox, the laundry sitting in the basket, the sink full of dishes you keep walking past. And it shows up in the bigger things too: the promises you made, the people counting on you, the commitments that feel heavier the longer you wait. Looking at all of it at once only makes it harder to move. But one small action, typing the first sentence of an email, folding one shirt, making one call, can be the catalyst to break the spell. Sometimes, you face accepting your limitations and surrender. Sometimes you prove to yourself that you can. Most of the time, it helps a little, a reminder you that you can still move forward. This is where the power lives.

In the moment it is almost impossible to see how these small movements equate to progress, but the perspective of time is powerful. These tiny acts do not just accumulate, they build and take shape. I lose sight of that more often than I would like, especially when my health pulls me under or when business slows and nothing seems to be working to pick it up. But looking back, I can see it. Going to the studio when I was not sure I had it in me. Hosting an event when the energy felt scarce. Working on a piece when I felt creatively empty. Whispers of proof become resonating echoes of time. And because I’ve been wiggling my big toe everyday for the past six years, I can at least know that I’ve been making progress, slow as it can be at times. I’m determined to find out what I am capable of before my time is up. If that resonates with you, progress of any kind is gold… right?

So now, the work I’m producing is better than ever. The ideas I have are more innovative. I went from selling art over Facebook, to selling at art shows, to opening twenty square feet of retail space, and growing that to an 1,800 square foot studio and gallery. My art continues to sell, as do tickets to my events. Do I want things to be moving faster and growing bigger? Absolutely. But here I am reminded, that our expectations are imaginary, they are based in an altered reality. If you default to having high expectations of yourself, you become blind to yourself, and you miss out on the distance you’ve travelled. None of this came through giant leaps. It came through moments so small they looked laughable from the outside (and some people will laugh… fuck ‘em). A toe moves, then a leg, then the rest. Suddenly you are building something much bigger than yourself.

“Hard part’s over. Now, let’s get these other piggies wiggling.”

I could use some help with this. Maybe you want to be a part of making it happen?

In the works is a concert series. Imagine something in the spirit of NPR’s Tiny Desk Concerts but performed and recorded live in my studio’s acoustically treated immersive installation Surrender and Smile. It’s not just about listening. It’s about being surrounded, with color, light, and sound stitched together into one experience.

This is happening, it’s a matter of time and resources. There are opportunities for you to support my creative events beyond purchasing artwork and tickets. I think it would be so neat to have local businesses, organizations, or creative champions support the arts by sponsoring this concert series. Contact me for details if this interests you.

Surrender & Smile - Immersive installation

Meanwhile…

My wall art collection keeps expanding. Lately I’ve been experimenting with something deceptively simple: light. Not projections. Not screens. Not high-tech equipment. Just the color of light itself. With these new pieces, the transformation is striking. Shift the lighting in the room, and it’s as if you own five or more works in one. A single artwork evolves, revealing something new each time. Playful. Unpredictable. Alive. Check out the video below for a preview of what’s to come…

This is just the beginning.

The studio is open most days (artist hours folks), you can pop-in, but I suggest you schedule a visit.