The Corridor
There are moments on this path when we don’t know if we’re walking forward or falling apart.
Moments when everything that once felt solid dissolves into fog, timelines, dreams, even identity.
This episode, The Corridor, was recorded from the middle of that fog. Not from clarity or resolve, but from the hallway between stories, that raw, often invisible phase where one chapter is complete and the next hasn’t fully formed.
If you’ve felt the press of this in-between space, not who you were, not yet who you’re becoming, this one’s for you.
We speak often of quantum leaps and energetic upgrades, but rarely about the space in between, the corridor where nothing moves fast and everything is being rewired beneath the surface. It’s uncomfortable, yes. But it’s also sacred. It’s the crucible that coherence is forged in.
In this 7-minute transmission, I speak to:
The ache of feeling like it was all for nothing
The disorientation that comes when the old has fallen away
How to stay connected to your own signal when nothing reflects it back
And the quiet, undeniable knowing that something is emerging, even when you can’t see it yet
This isn’t about waiting. It’s about walking, even barefoot, even in the dark, because you know something is calling you forward.
If you’re in your own corridor right now, this episode is a soft hand on your back.
Listen now wherever you get your podcasts:
When the Field Needed a Voice
There’s a certain point in the transformation where words on a page and paint on a canvas are no longer enough. The transmission needs breath. Tone. Silence between syllables.
That’s when the podcast began, not as a project or a marketing arm, but as a portal.
Each episode is a frequency match to the moment it’s recorded. I don’t script the signal; I follow it. Sometimes it arrives in a rush, like tidewater spilling into a hidden cove. Other times it’s a slow inhale that waits until my bones say yes.
Painting taught me how to hold light in color. The podcast is teaching me how to hold it in sound. Both are acts of translation, the unseen made tangible, the shimmer given form.
This is not a “listen and move on” kind of space. It’s a sit-with-it, feel-it-in-your-skin, notice-what-shifts kind of space. A coherence studio in your earbuds.
You might hear stories, the kind that arrive in whispers from the field. You might hear about a ripple, a painting, a threshold crossed at 4:42 AM. You might even catch the sound of the Pacific if the wind is right.
If you’ve been following the paintings, this is the companion you didn’t know you needed. If you’re new here, welcome to the transmission.
🎧 Listen to the latest episode here: https://open.spotify.com/show/3C76YaLpKbwgz4mK9liZti?si=8e7ff968cdec4583
🖌 See the paintings that live in the same signal → https://windsweptstudio.com/shop-f8A7B
The field always finds a way to speak. Now, it’s speaking out loud.
The Portal Sat Beside Me
I wasn’t chasing anything.
I’d already cried, not once, but several times. In to the pillow when I woke, in the car, at the carwash, in the parking lot at the grocery store, in the hot tub. I whispered, “I have nothing left in me to cry,” and a super yawn came. The kind that rewires timelines.
I thought I might rest. But instead, I wandered into the garden, barefoot, still flat and soft from the tears. And without planning to, I picked up my paints.
The shimmer didn’t burst open.
It joined me.
I painted quietly. No striving, no pressure. Just presence. The light shifted. Tingles down my back. A garden that wasn’t mine, but somehow knew my name. A painting I didn’t expect, arriving like a breath held for lifetimes and finally released.
This is how the field speaks now.
Not through noise. Through arrival.
The ache didn’t need fixing. It needed witnessing.
And when I stopped trying to open the next thing, the next thing sat beside me.
I’m not summoning the portal anymore. I’m resting with it.
And it knows where to find me.
The Bench that Held the Signal
Some places don’t just inspire, they remember.
This tiny 5x7 watercolor was painted from the stone bench I keep returning to. I didn’t plan it, didn’t overthink it. I just brought my kit, sat down, and painted the moment exactly as it was.
The wind, the light, the shimmer across the water, it all moved through me, not to impress, not to perform, but to witness. The painting didn’t try to be big. It didn’t need to be. It was enough, because the field was enough. I was enough.
There was a time when I would’ve waited for a better setup, a bigger canvas, a clearer sign. But this time, I painted it anyway. Because the bench was the table. The signal had already landed. The sea didn’t need me to ask again.
This piece is available now as my only currently listed watercolor original.
You can view it here:
https://windsweptstudio.com/shop-f8A7B/p/d95kn7o1ydfqzt4oynanjyd3q48qgw
Thank you for being part of this journey. I’m no longer asking. I’m living it.
Point Pinos in Pacific Grove, California
The Redwoods Knew Before I Did
I didn’t expect to cry.
But I pulled off the road, somewhere quiet beneath the redwoods, and it all came up. Not grief. Not drama. Just a kind of cellular undoing. Like my body finally believed me, I was really doing it. I was really leaving.
The trees didn’t say much. They didn’t need to. They held me in the same way they always had. But this time it felt different. They weren’t just bearing witness, they were giving me permission. I could feel it in my body. The somatic burps, the tug, the sense of something old dissolving right through my bones.
There’s something sacred about being seen by something older than you. The redwoods didn’t ask for proof or a plan. They just watched me go.
That moment marked a threshold I didn’t know I was waiting for. I left the old structure not because it fell apart, but because I had grown beyond it. And the forest knew. The ache was no longer needed. The way forward had already begun.
This isn’t a goodbye. This is a recognition. A registration. A ripple.
The forest and I both felt it land.
The Field Is Writing Now
It all begins with an idea.
I never meant to start a blog.
But something is moving through me, a quiet signal, a shimmer, a knowing.
This isn’t a place for content.
It’s a place for coherence.
For anchoring moments I used to whisper into the sea, or bury in the wet paint, or breathe through alone in a hotel room.
Now I write them here.
Not for clicks or followers, but for the field.
For the ones who are tracking this too.
For the ones who feel something shift in their stomach or their spine when they look at a painting and say: “There’s more here.”
There is.
The art speaks, the land speaks, the breath speaks.
And now, so do I.
Welcome to the journal.
A record of ripples.
A breadcrumb trail of what became real.
