The Sunflower

posted Jan 13, 2021, 2:12 PM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Jan 15, 2021, 8:13 AM ]


The Sunflower

At the sun's dawning

Its rays shoot out

Chasing night away,

Shooing darkness 

Scattering doubt

Exposing secrets 

and decay.

A golden orb

Snaps to its path

For a slow



Seeking truth

Searching for love

Plumb with all that is good.

A thousand petals

of  spontaneous praise -

A shout of adoration explodes!

Glory is given

And homage is paid

Until the close of day.

And in faith the orb 

shifts back again

In faith it turns back east

In faith it waits 

In faith it hopes

For the surety of an encore.

Oh to be

            like that in faith - 

In truth and love and joy -

To be unfettered

Of all that is wrong

And only goodness employ.

Donations to the Friends of Mascoma Food Bank

posted Dec 9, 2020, 2:05 PM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Dec 9, 2020, 2:37 PM ]

This Christmas season has been very quiet for me because the pandemic has us all at home.  Most of the gifts my family is giving are homemade or purchased from local artists and businesses.  Because I live in a small town, I know most of the people profiting from my purchases.  While my family has always given handmade things (I am an artist, afterall), my community is making similar choices.  People making these choices have helped me to stay afloat as an artist through a pandemic.  I truly could not have made it this far without your monumental faith in me or your support of my work.

Please help me celebrate Christmas!  Between now and Christmas, I am celebrating by donating 50% of my sales from my paintings, prints and note cards  to the Friends of Mascoma food bank.  The Covid cases are drastically increasing through New Hampshire. This food bank has been vital to so many people in the Mascoma Valley through this ordeal, and it has drastically increased its services to the community.  Food distributions have sky rocketed to more than 250% over last year.  If you are looking for that special gift for someone, consider purchasing a painting or print.  I also have a handsome line of blank note cards available with my paintings on them.  To purchase, simply email or Facebook Message me. I am willing to ship to anywhere in the United States.


In the mean time, I hope you enjoy this sneak peak of a painting in progress - First Snow on the Poplars.

I hope you are enjoying this season and that you have a joyful, peaceful, and merry Christmas.  


posted Nov 26, 2020, 8:57 AM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Dec 2, 2020, 6:07 PM ]


        I am excited to share two paintings that are to be permanent installations at the Richard W. Black Community Center (RWB) in Hanover, NH.  The paintings are being donated by Christ Redeemer Church in honor of the Upper Valley community and how they have served the physical needs of our church over the last 20 years.  Many of the larger church events have been held at the RWB because the church does not have a physical building of its own.  When I proposed this idea last February, I did so because both the Upper Valley community at large, and Christ Redeemer Church, have played a vital role in my life.  These two paintings are by far my most personal pieces of art. 

        I have chosen to use the native lady slipper orchids to represent that community is a long term investment. Lady slippers take 10-17 years to go from seed to blossom. The seeds are extremely tiny, consisting of only a few cells. When those seeds are given the right environment, conditions and time, they begin to grow. That growth is very slow, but eventually, they blossom into one of NH's most prized wildflowers. Similarly, community takes time. It must be tended to, cared for, fostered and given the right conditions to allow relationships to form, to allow growth in individuals and for long lasting positive influence to happen. Community must be tended to with care. When this is done, communities grow into something stunningly beautiful.

        The second painting is of indian pipe flowers. These fragile flowers contain no chlorophyll for photosynthesis, but obtain nourishment from the rich organic soil. They have a symbiotic relationship with other plants and can thrive in even the deepest, darkest places in our NH forests. We have many in our communities who are fragile and vulnerable among us; people who see dark circumstances and who have little hope. In a community, justice, truth, mercy and love matter. When we provide this richness, even our vulnerable blossom and thrive. Suddenly they give value and dimension, dignity and beauty to our communities.

        I have written many things about these two paintings, but I keep finding myself pounding on the backspace button. How can I convey something that I feel so strongly about?  How can I articulate visceral emotion?  How can I convey the importance of what I have to say? To understand why these are my most important work, you must understand that community actually and truly saved my life. 

As an adolescent and young adult, I experienced circumstances that created feelings of intense isolation and loneliness.  It was a consuming loneliness - the kind that makes it hard to breathe.  It shaped my very core, and became a slow vortex that sucked me emotionally downward; it nearly destroyed me.  I eventually became unable to maintain even casual relationships because I literally could not find a path out of the suffocating feelings of not being understood.  My sense of isolation morphed into a false belief that I was smited by God, that I contained no goodness within me, and that I was totally unlovable.  I believed I was the very essence of bad.  With this false belief, I began to expect rejection.  My behavior began to mirror my belief, causing a cycle of self-fulfilling prophecy.  

By the age of 19, I was a school dropout, unemployed and living in an unfinished basement, in a house of strangers, 1200 miles from where I grew up.  My few belongings were propped up on pallets because the basement sometimes leaked.  The basement contained a toilet randomly placed, with no walls around it, not unlike a jail cell.  My life became devoid of meaningful connection to others.  I was figuratively and literally alone.  Let me tell you, that was an intensely dark time.  

In hindsight, I see there were many reasons I wound up in such a desperate, despairing state.  Some of those reasons were my own fault, but many of them were beyond my control and unavoidable. For many, many years I tried to hide my early life from others.  It is not at all comfortable for me to talk about, and when I do, my story comes out in random, non-chronological clumps that are hard for other people to follow.  Frankly, it is embarrassing to express how low I was - how depleted - how destitute.  When I do try to share, no words are quite sufficient to explain the intense reality of my situation or of my emotions.  When I try to explain how I got there, I am often met with dumbfounded consternation, and in many cases, true disbelief.     

  To simplify my story, I distill it down to this: all of my experiences together caused me to taste a very profound lack of community and it nearly killed me. Community is a feeling of fellowship with others.  It can be gained from sharing common goals, attitudes and interests.  It can be gained from sharing a common space or by sharing particular characteristics.  It can also be gained by simply sharing common experiences. Community gives people a sense of value and belonging.  People can only feel love when they are in community.   Put simply, community is sharing a common life. 

It was community that brought me out of my darkness.  We all know that maturity and growth take time.  It is more difficult to know that it also takes one another.  Mature growth comes from love and forgiveness.  It comes from regarding one another more highly than ourselves.  It comes from teaching and gently correcting each other.  It takes friendship, kindness, compassion, patience, goodness, empathy, serving one another and generous hospitality.  

I was fortunate enough to find these things, and though it sounds extreme, I do believe community saved my life, in a very real way.  In the late 1990s, it was the community of Walling & Berg Law Firm (where I was employed) that I experienced people recognizing my dark state.  Two mentors there - Dorothy Cleveland and Nancy Berg - spent countless hours investing in me.  They recognized pain I could not even admit.  They shared their own stories with me. They opened their homes.  They shared meals.  They spent hours talking to me about life and the world and they gently steered me into counseling.  They encouraged me to go to school and to work hard, and they provided stability.  Amazingly, as creative women themselves, they recognized my need for creativity and directed me towards the arts.

After striving towards an undergraduate degree, I eventually went onto graduate school.  It was here that I began to understand peer friendship at a different level. I formed friendships with people from other cultures.  I stumbled alongside my peers and learned what it meant to be a critical thinker.  I learned to be comfortable with the process of learning and how long it takes sometimes.  

When I moved from Minnesota to New Hampshire, my community morphed from one with shared intellectual goals to one with a shared physical location.  The League of New Hampshire Craftsmen Craftstudies studios helped me to grow professionally in ways I never would have expected.  It gave me the courage to make a radical career shift from engineering to the arts.  It pushed me to be a little less critical of myself.  It was in the town of Canaan, NH that I learned what it meant to be a good neighbor because neighbors like Patsy Carter and her family and Carrie Cahill Mulligan modeled it for me.  

But the community that touched my life so profoundly was at Christ Redeemer Church.  Honestly, before going there, my anger caused other people to push me away. At Christ Redeemer Church, I was given space to express my anger at the world and all the darkness I had seen.  I was invested in and valued.  Emily Tworag, Dori Willeman, Megan Eshbaugh and Lara Mather showed me friendship in profound ways.  I did not share the same worldview as them.  I didn’t understand theology, or even right from wrong.  In fact, I had repeatedly seen people misuse Christianity for personal or political gain, causing me to fear anything religious.  But these women loved me in very concrete ways.  They wept with me in my sorrow over lost pregnancies and abuse and hard parenting days.  They literally fed me when I was too tired and sick to feed myself.  They listened to me.  They encouraged me to speak.  They forgave when I needed forgiveness. They taught me to discuss difficult, emotional things. They taught me to quiet myself to listen.  They challenged me to think critically about philosophy and religion. Though they never compromised who they were, they accepted me and didn't try to force my worldview to fit theirs. Slowly, over many years, they came to truly know the rawness of me and they loved me anyway.  And that love laid bare over the messiness of my life taught me that I have value.  I believe this was Gods grace to me. He saved me through community.

When I say community saved me life, I mean it literally.  Statistically speaking there is no way I should have survived the circumstances to which I was subjected.  It is all too common that people with similar stories become so alone and desperate they end up homeless, with debilitating addiction, overdosing, suicidal, in prostitution or killed in violence.  I have watched it happen to several people around me.  

In 2020, it has been easy to get lost in the darkness of our world.  While in the midst of a pandemic and with many of us celebrating Thanksgiving without extended family and friends, it may be difficult to see anything joyful.  It is even cold and raining outside today.  But it is in our darkest hour that it is vital to practice thankfulness.  Thankfulness gives life in the midst of despair.  I am thankful for community. I would like to invite you to celebrate it with me. This year, please join me in celebrating community by reaching out to someone in your life who you would not normally reach out to.  It may end up saving a life, and it will certainly enrich your own.

Changing it up

posted Aug 3, 2020, 5:14 AM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Aug 19, 2020, 8:20 AM ]

The Hanover League of New Hampshire Craftsmen Gallery has permanently closed.  This is rather devastating for so many reasons.  It was a place where beauty and love expounded, inspiration flowed and many of my friendships were born and fostered.  And, it was also where I sold most of my work.  Though the Craftstudies studios are still hanging on, Covid is taking its toll on our livelihoods.  I have not remained unscathed; I have not been teaching or throwing pottery since March.  

In the midst of all the uncertainty, I have been trying to learn how to be flexible.  Thankfully, my family is learning to be flexible, too - and generous towards me.  I have a been able to rent a wheel and started throwing some pottery in my mudroom.  This has enabled me to not let my skills slip.  

I love my mudroom.  Together, my husband and I lovingly built the whole thing from scratch, including a contoured window bench, huge double windows to let in light with exquisite trim and a hand cut tile floor.  But it is a mudroom, and my family uses it as such.  There are boots with cow manure on them from my son who works on the farm across the street.  And dirty laundry mounding up in the attached bathroom.  And shoes everywhere.


Ordinarily, this would be no problem.  I am used to sharing my space and I am used to messes.  And so I threw a dozen mugs.  

These five mugs were the only mugs that did not meet destruction.  Fifty percent of my work was wrecked.  One from a flung shoe.  One was knocked by the bathroom door. A wareboard was bumped by a laundry basket.  There is no proper water filtration system for the water that has clay in it. There is no spot for greenware or bisqueware. And most importantly, there is no power for hooking up my kiln.  My mudroom is not a suitable place for me to set up an rudimentary pottery space.

So if I am going to work from home, I have to get creative.  No problem.  I'm an artist.  That is what I do.  And so while I was figuring out how to handle the pottery situation, I sewed up this quilt for someone I love dearly.  I thought and gardened and sewed - trying to decide what to do.  

And there, behind the quilt, beyond the garden, and way out back is my soon to be chicken-coop-turned-art-shack.  

Behold!  My new 12'x16' art shack!

My family has been wonderful! They helped me cut down a huge tree that was threatening to flatten the structure.  They jacked up the shack for the sill to be replaced.  They helped me moved it about 50' closer to an existing waterline.  (This was a painfully slow process that involved jacking it up, putting round fence posts under it and pushing with bars and all our might to get it to slowly roll, inch by inch closer.)  It is not insulated.  There are no windows for light.  There isn't really a door that would keep out any critters (except for a bear).  But it is a start.  

I have a rented wheel and a beautiful kiln ready to be hooked up. But.....

I do need power run out to the shack for the kiln and wheel.  I do need a fire barrier to provide safe place to fire the kiln.  I do need insulation so I can work in winter, and some kind of heater.  I do need a door that will keep animals out.  And I do need rudimentary shelving for greenware, bisqueware and finished pottery.  I do need a floor that can be mopped to decrease particulate exposure and health hazard. I do need a water filtration system and a utility sink.  It would be a luxury to buy a wheel of my own. And I would love some windows for painting in natural light.   

In the mean time, I'll be doing what I can to set up the likely scenario of having my three children at home for a year of remote learning and working from home.  And I'm painting.  Right now I'm working in pastels.  But will start working in oils again toward the end of this month.  

Here is is a quick pastel painting I did of three children eating lunch on the top of Rattlesnake Mt.  

And this is the one I sketched up yesterday and will start to paint today. Meadowlarks have the most beautiful song and they are such cheerful little things that just fill you right up with joy.  

So, if you have ever liked any of my paintings, please consider buying one now so I can get my art shack up and running a little faster, enabling me to do pottery from home and paint a little easier.  You may send me an email at or you can PM me on Facebook and we can arrange delivery.  Also, stay tuned for pottery that will (hopefully) be coming in time for Christmas. 

A Voice

posted Jun 24, 2020, 12:20 PM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Jun 25, 2020, 3:39 AM ]

Over the years, I have gotten emotionally mired in the less than favorable circumstances around me.  It is easy for me to be pensive and melancholy.  This year has been fraught with unfavorable circumstances.

It has been bad from the start.  Drought and fire consumed the entire continent of Australia.  A pandemic has pummeled the world and over 477k people have died.  In the United States, there have been mandated lock downs, quarantines, and social distancing.  People feel distant from one another.  The situation here has morphed from “we are all in this together” to “your mask (or lack there of) is a political statement”.  Social distancing has become essential or ridiculous, depending on the crowd you hang with.  People are fighting viciously about how best to handle the crashed economy.  All the while many Americans - many of my neighbors - are faced with job loss, food insecurity and gnawing loneliness.  

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, our nation watched in horror as George Floyd was killed by police, slowly, over a $20 bill.  This served as a catalyst, spurring many Americans into conversations about systemic racism.  We wrestle with our beliefs and our culture, and thousands took to the streets in protest.  A few riots took place and the political right and left began to address the situation from vastly different perspectives making it nearly impossible to solve the problem calmly, with dignity and sensitivity.  Rhetoric is harsh; accusations fly with intensity making it impossible to find solutions to our societal brokenness.  

It is easy for me to think I am just an artist who makes very little money; there is nothing I can do.  I live in an old house, in a small town, in rural New Hampshire.  The problems are too big and too established.  The situations are too nuanced.  I see no wise path forward.  Our sins are so ingrained in us that we cannot even see them. I am too small and too insignificant to make a difference.  I convince myself that I don’t matter.

Over the years I have learned to deal with my melancholy.  I learned music is able to quiet my soul.  Poetry can move me.  Other people's words and lyrics can give voice to my big emotions that leave me speechless.  Something as simple as a clean room with a beautiful paint color on the walls and a bowl of fruit on the table can relax me.  A sculpture can ignite a fire within me. A painting can arrest my inner storms.  When those storms are calmed, I am able to hear other people and have a healthy perspective.  Aesthetics are vital.  We intuitively know this is true.  This is why we wish pictures in home magazines were our own.  

Art fits and expresses our uniqueness, and it holds tremendous power.  It comforts,  calms and unites.  It has the power to create awe.  It lights fires. It even has the power to bring to light something horrific so we can see it, admit it and then process and change it.  

Some artists have the power to make art that highlights hard issues with which we are faced.  Clara Aden’s Slave Relic moves me.  I cannot look at her work without feeling profound sadness.  It shows us the ugliness of our human desire for power and control and money as it explores the history of slavery and exploitation.  While atrocities are painful and difficult to see, wounds cannot be healed without examination. Her work serves as a mirror that reflects our brokenness. I am grateful for artists like this.  They have important voices - so very, very important.  After all, realization and acknowledgement are the first steps toward improvement.

slave relic, Clara Aden

Sometimes I wish I could naturally convey things as important as this. But this is not my tendency. It is not my voice.  

Yesterday, I took my children strawberry picking at Wellwood Orchard in Vermont.  I have done this every year of my children’s lives.  And as I stood there in the splendor of the mountains, picking sun-kissed berries, I realized the truth of the importance of my work.  My voice is not big or loud or confrontational.  My voice is quiet. However, it is equally important because it marks the next step toward change.

Years ago, while working for Nancy Zalusky Berg at her family law firm in Minneapolis, I saw lots of division and fighting.  Nancy had the unique ability to provide a space where two parties could meet in mediation, pushing forward toward reconciliation and resolve; she made all kinds of people feel valued. She had the ability to challenge people to examine themselves while maintaining humility to examine herself as well. She did this both professionally and personally; it was in her home that I saw this first hand during a difficult conversation in which my actions were called out. Mediation is usually uncomfortable and difficult.  I observed the path forward began with a space safe enough that both parties could come together with their guard down, even if just for a moment.  A safe place is one where healing begins.  Without that safe space, people remain on the defensive and horns lock. Bitterness takes root and consumes without this safety.   To be sure, some situations are so dire that courts must be utilized.  However, let us not underestimate the power of safe environments and the conversations they allow.  It is slow and time consuming, to be sure, but incredibly useful for effecting improvement.

Artwork can help create that safe space.  It can be used as an invitation to a path of unification.  My work is that of a peacemaker - a mediator.  Once the chips are on the table - the divisions laid bare - the ugliness exposed - we must find a path toward repentance, forgiveness, mercy, justice, grace.  And that space must be safe for all parties. My work helps to create that safe space where these things can begin.

My voice is not a political sign on the lawn.  It is just a beautiful hand thrown bowl of strawberries with the question: “Would you sit with me awhile, share my snack and talk on my porch?  Tell me, what do you think about what happened last night in the news?”

My voice is not a protest sign.  It is just a pottery vase of heirloom peonies with the question: “Did you smell them?  I love them.  This is a small piece of me.  Tell me, what do you like?  What is your story?”

My voice is not a t-shirt with a slogan. It is a mug that fits your hands just right with the question: "Cream? Sugar? Have you ever thought of it from this point of view?"


My voice may be subtle. Yet, it is equally as important. My voice is a simple painting and a story behind its creation which serves as a place of rest.  It is a place to turn to when that porch conversation gets to testy.  It is a safe place of respite until the hard conversation can resume.  Use it to flip to your back for a restful float when you are too tired to swim any further.  It is a safe place to catch your breath.  Art can prevent you from drowning.

If you find yourself watching the news and feeling disturbed and indignant, and yet you are uncomfortable proclaiming your beliefs on a street corner, consider the possibility that your voice is a different kind of voice. That does not mean it is weak or morally inferior. Actually, it takes great strength, wisdom and self discipline to do what I am proposing. Consider capitalizing on hospitality to foster change.  Create a space to share with others. And if you are able, consider investing in a few pieces of art to make people feel comfortable.   Use these things as the blessings they are - items to help create beautiful, safe places where meaningful, transformative conversations can happen.

A Call for Creativity

posted Mar 30, 2020, 5:29 PM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Mar 31, 2020, 5:58 AM ]

When I was a little girl, my mom came into my room late one night and woke me.  Her excitement pulled me out of a warm sleep, and she beckoned me out into the chilly night air on the porch.  Her excitement was electric, making me zing with anticipation. She stood frozen, taught, hushed. I waited patiently for my eyes to adjust to the dark, then followed her gaze.  There, on the screen next to the door, was the palest green moth. It was like delicate sea glass poised in the inky night.  

I was spellbound by its wings, with bright spotted false eyes that somehow generated light.  It must have swallowed the moon. It drew me from the depths of the surrounding night to itself.  It was stunning. My mom pulled me near and whispered quietly that it was a luna moth. She let her words float away as we studied this wonderful creature.  

New Hampshire's Giant Silk Moths: Polyphemus, Luna and Cecropia

Slowly I lifted my hand to touch it - to make it my own - but mom gently pulled me away. “It’s too delicate to touch,  you’ll hurt it and it won’t be able to fly.” Instead, we watched its wings ever so gently open and close and open and close until, in one strong beat, it lifted and flew over the yard and into the trees in a slow, erratic flight.  

All the darkness around me was chased away by the brightness of that luna’s beauty.  It’s wings conquered night and I shared it’s weightlessness. A light was sparked deep in my chest.  There was silent magic. Years later I would remember that moment when reading Nette Onclaud’s poem …. “This elegance is not meant to be mine…., with joy, I tossed it back to grace the woods.”

These are dark times.  Our country is facing the Covid-19 pandemic and it is harrowing.  Sadness fills me as I watch whole cities be bludgeoned with illness.  Tens of thousands are sick. Thousands are dead. I taste angst as I watch the National Guard set up military medical tents for all the sick people.  People are losing their jobs. The economy is tanking. We isolate ourselves in hopes of slowing tragedy.  

The classes I was teaching abruptly halted.  Some of my shows are cancelled. All of the stores and galleries where I sell my work are closed.  Artists are all in the same boat. None of us have much hope for making money for a while. The governor has declared a stay at home order, and if I’m not careful I begin to believe that I am called to do nothing. 

In the emerging field of neuroaesthetics, scientists have been able to use MRIs in order to quantify the positive effects of beauty and art on the brain.  Slowly we are beginning to understand how beauty and art are actually life giving. It produces positive biophysical responses in the medial prefrontal cortex of the brain.  Beauty actually heals. Creation is actually regenerative.

Artists are more than professional makers.  We are creators and keepers of beauty, love and hope.  And these push out darkness and despair - just like that luna moth conquered the night.  Never have I known my community to need these more than it does now. As artists we must join the ranks of workers and help to produce healing.  Though we are unable to go to hospitals and give medicine or ventilators, we can fill the world with the salve of our work. We can decrease stress, angst, and fear.  We can alleviate sadness and bring people closer to one another even in the midst of social distancing.  

I am hoping to share some of my creations (even my small, imperfect ones) on social media in order lessen the effects of all this suffering. I hope you join me in this endeavor. Though our typical venues are closed and we are unlikely to sell work now, share your art. It has so much more value than money.  Offer it to the world. After all, the elegant dreams born within us were never ours to possess. They are there to give.

Week 1: Covid-19 social distancing

posted Mar 16, 2020, 3:27 PM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Mar 17, 2020, 1:51 PM ]

This last Thursday I took my youngest son to an orthodontist appointment.  Like I have done on most Thursdays for the last four or five years, I went to Hannaford's to grab a few things.  Thursday is generally a great time to go grocery shopping because it is usually empty except for myself and a few people of an older generation. 

Like many people, I have been following the Covid-19 progress as it sweeps through our country and county.  Yet, as I went to the store on Thursday with my son, I was completely shocked.  Only a few hours before, President Trump delivered a speech declaring that the American borders would be closed at midnight - the parking lot was packed with panicked shoppers.  When I got inside, ALL the flour was gone, and ALL the rice was gone (except for in the ethnic sections - which is so, so sad for so many reasons).  Toilet paper and cleaning supplies were gone. No hand sanitizer.  No canned tuna.  No oatmeal.  Only a few packs of frozen veggies.  Whole shelves were bare.  The store was packed with people.  But it was oddly quiet.  No one talked to one another.  Everyone was buying large quantities and I noticed a few older couples that I recognized.  They seemed so bewildered.  

I stood there for a moment - shocked - overwhelmed - stunned.  My son looked up at me with big eyes and asked "Mom, is this the apocalypse?"  That question broke my heart.  He was watching closely and saw people "panic" buying.  It was fearful and ugly to see.  It seemed so selfish and soul-consuming.    And with my son observing, I forced myself to stay calm and steady.  I did not want him to see my fear.  I forced myself to give the last bag of frozen green beans to a woman with a baby in her cart who was at her wits end.  I forced myself to silently remember it is okay to go without coffee for a while.  And I bought my normal groceries, minus flour, rice and toilet paper, and then left.  

This week, I have had to calm my fears often.  I had to tell myself to not be compulsively consuming the news.  I talked to my kids about limiting our resources - about the importance of not wasting anything - of why hand washing is so important.  I had to constantly stuff my fears down inside me.  If my kids coughed, I'd wonder if they were "getting something." My fears were silently eating away at me.

A long time ago I was doing my dishes and put soap into my water bottle to cleanse it.  It was nearly impossible to get out all the soap by adding a little water to it and then shaking it out.  Doing so just produced more bubbles.  I tried over and over.  But then I noticed a very curious thing.  If I put the bottle under the faucet and let it fill up completely with water, the never ending bubbles were displaced and the soap was removed.  

Fear is like that.  Stuffing it down inside me doesn't make it go away.  Holding it silently doesn't make it go away.  Joking about the situation doesn't make it go away.  Pretending I'm in control doesn't make it go away.  I can't stop my fear.  It is suffocating.  But like displacing bubbles with water, I can displace my fear with thoughts of truth.  It is a continuous process to keep the fear bubbling up in me at bay - and I know I need that stream of truth to be constant.  But if I fill my mind with truth, I remain calm and fear becomes powerless over my response.  

Focusing on truth doesn't mean nothing bad will happen.  
It doesn't mean my family will remain healthy.  
It doesn't mean we will love our dinners over the coming weeks and months.  
It doesn't mean I will have endless snacks.  
It doesn't mean I will not be inconvenienced. 

But it does mean that fear does not own me.  
It does means I can choose not to be consumed with self and a love of my own comfort.  
It does mean I can choose to see and love others and to remember their needs are equal to (and in many cases greater than) mine.  

So what is the truth?  

The truth is I am extremely fortunate.  If I run out of toilet paper, my toilet is only a few feet from my tub. If I get tired and need space, I can ask my kids to read or play outside.  I can use the time I am usually commuting to work for exercise.  I can eat lunch with my family every day.  I can teach my kids more about my craft.  I can take naps. I can focus on things like the crocus that just popped out of the ground.  

The truth is I can start my seeds for my garden.  I can enjoy the sun from my porch swing. Today I have food to eat - and it is in beautiful pottery.  I can enjoy finding my youngest asleep in a wheel borrow (this happened). I can enjoy a campfire where my oldest plays guitar and my daughter reads.  I can savor the plunk of sap dripping into buckets.

The truth is I had time and supplies to finish my cecropia moth painting.  (I hope you can see one of these someday!  They are exquisite!)

But the biggest truth of all is this: all of the happy amenities I have now are worth nothing compared to the fact that I have a God who cares about all the suffering that is happening in the world right now.  He cares about all the sick people.  (Read the book of Matthew.)  He cares about people losing their financial security. (Read the book of Ruth).  He cares if you are short on food and if your body feels frail. (Read the story of the fish and loaves of bread).  He cares if you are anxious and not sleeping.  (Read the book of Psalms.) Our problem of sin and suffering is a great one. In fact, it is so great, we are incapable of knowing how big our problem actually is.  It is so great that God, himself, had to come into this world - to bring himself down from a heavenly-other-worldly place - and enter into our Covid-19 riddled lives to be with us.  He had to come down from his supreme authority and ultimate power and magnificent glory to subject himself to our world of sickness and death and suffering so that we could avoid the greatest suffering of all: a separation between us and him.  But he rose from the dead.  He conquered even death.  To be with us.  Because he loves us.  That is the biggest truth. 

Even if you don't agree with me or believe this to be true, I recommend you read these stories anyway.  Think Princess Bride.  
    Grandson: Has it got any sports in it?
    Grandpa: Are you kidding?  Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles ...
It is very apropos to our current time.  The bible is truly an amazing literary thing.

So in this time of worry and fear and uncertainty, let the suffering we might experience produce a perseverance to handle what is tossed our way.  Don't be cowed by fears; we are in this together.  Let our new found perseverance give us a character that focuses on loving one another rather than one that feeds our selfish desires for the comfort of toilet paper.  Let's not go to the grocery store with "mine, mine, mine" in mind.  Let's cherish the good things in our life and hope in good things to come. Don't let our mere discomfort be confused for the greater suffering of those of us who have no food, get a pink slip, or lose a loved one.  Heed the pleas of medical professionals to stay home.  Wash your hands.  Endure a little bit of stir-craziness for the sake of our common good. And most of all, cling to truth.

A Generational Impact

posted Feb 23, 2020, 7:18 PM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Mar 30, 2020, 1:41 PM ]

I do not have aspirations of becoming one the "greats" in the art world.  I don't make beautiful things for self promotion.  I want my work to enrich the lives of others.  And while I try to be intentional in my work, I also realize I will not witness its impact most of the time.  All I can do is try my hardest to create beautiful things and let them be found by other people later, like little treasures once forgotten.  Often, I do not see the joy on someone's face when they see my work for the first time.  I will not know the peace someone might feel from looking at a piece of my work over their morning coffee.  I might not ever fully understand the comfort one might have from owning something special.  Yet it is my hope my things are enjoyed, and that they have a deep, positive and generational impact.  

As parents, we don't often think about how we change other people and shape the next generation.  More often we think: just put your shoes on!  But how we behave makes a profound difference.  There is a big difference between a gentle, firm reminder to a child and a loss of temper or a fit of rage.  All those little, daily interactions add up to form a powerful force that profoundly effects another human life.  

Art is like that.  We daily interact with art, and all those interactions add up to a powerful force that shapes other people's lives.  My work is just one tiny interaction among many.  But one piece at a time, I can make a difference.  I can offer love.  I can offer wonder.  I can offer an invitation to think outside of "self".  

Twice this month, I have been reminded that I need not be driven by a desire for instant gratification from my work. It is okay, and actually more meaningful, to focus on the long haul. 

Trout Lily

The first time I was reminded of this was when I was working on my most recent painting of a trout lily.  It has been about -20 degF and I was longing for that bright splotch of sunshine you find on the forest floor that affirms winter is finally over.  Over a snack with my kids, I had casually mentioned that I was looking for a poem about trout lilies and I could only find one.  A few days later, I opened my computer and found this written by my eight year old son:


At Trout Lily Bay
Where trout lilies grow, 
There is a trout lily
round and plump. 
It shines in the sunshine
And at night. 
When there's a fright
it droops all gloomy and gray.

I had created something and offered it to the world.  And here my son took it, and held it inside him, and pondered it, and savored it, and then responded in kind.  I offered something good from within myself to the world, and it inspired further goodness.  He wrote this as a gift to me.

The second time, resulted from the highest compliment I have ever been paid for my art work.  The compliment came unexpectedly.  It came with so much force I was a bit shocked by it.  It came when I was feeling a little self conscience.  And it came from a third grader.  My son had a friend over, and they were having a mighty dual with Nerf guns.  

Many of you know that I have an internal battle between the disorganized artist and the ever linear engineer.  I wish I were a tidy person, but I'm just not.  In fact, I'm rather a slob.  And if you have ever been to my house, you know that my husband and I interact in much the same way.  We have many, many projects started, half finished and shoved against the wall.  While my creative side comes out mostly in the arts, my husband's creative side shines in house projects.  His craftsmanship is beautiful.  Stunning, in fact.  And he is so patient and persistent at whittling away at them in between parenting and loving me and a day job.  But like all creative people, we have more ideas and dreams than we can ever realize.  

And to top it off, we had three lovely children ... all creative, messy types too.  

Our home is filled with paint, and fabric and power tools, and half finished rooms.  It's filled with sewing machines and thousands of dominos (literally).  There is Japanese paper for paper cuts, and multiple pencil sets for drawing.  There are wooden helicopters the kids have made, and homemade 2x4 rifles fashioned into blow guns for Nerf bullets.  We have craft supplies and building supplies and construction tools and toys, all littered through a home sprinkled with sawdust and plaster.  And our home is from 1900, so there is NO storage space.  

This explains my bedroom.  When I decided to really give oil painting a try a few years ago, it was in the middle of the day and I realized the best lighting was actually where my bed was.  And my bed was in a room that is not quite finished because it is in an addition we put on several years earlier.  But I wasn't in the "cover the studs with sheet rock" mode, I was in the "paint a picture" mode.  And so I just shoved the bed haphazardly into the middle of the room and threw up some shelf brackets I had squirreled in the basement.  A scrap board on top and - vois la - a painting shelf.  It's been there ever since.

Because I did not really know my son's friend very well yet, I was self conscience about the mess all around me.  It was the first time this boy had seen this part of my messy life. But I was feeling a time crunch for an upcoming exhibit.  Rather than cleaning, I chose to paint while they warred.

I was working on the foreground of my Mt. Cardigan painting and I could hear the joyous laughter behind me as they shouted out points for hitting each other with Nerf bullets.  Suddenly I heard an audible gasp and instant silence.    I turned to see Tyson standing in my bedroom doorway.  He wasn't seeing my mess.  He had rapt attention on my painting and he stared at it while he slowly came in for closer look.  Quietly I stepped aside, letting him take it in.  He stood silent for what seemed like forever.  Then there was a barely audible "Wow.  I want to do that!"  

"Would you like to?"


"Okay then."  

And so, I simply put my brush down, found an old t-shirt for a smock and gave an impromptu art lesson.  The joy and excitement my son and his friend had was palpable.  And a few days later I was sent this glowing picture of Tyson and his finished painting.  There is so much pride and joy exuded here.  

Yes, I hope my art work makes a difference in my community today and tomorrow.  But these two interactions remind me that just like a parent cares for and nurtures a child, so an artist nurtures and cares for their community, one small interaction at a time.  And just as the fruit of good parenting isn't seen instantaneously, so the fruit of an artist may only be seen in years to come.  And that fruit might not be tangible.  It might only remain in the heart of another as a memory or feeling.  My work is to nurture and foster generationally. My work is for the benefit of future humanity.  At this, I am humbled and awed.    

Our Home, Not My Home

posted Jan 15, 2020, 7:36 AM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Jan 15, 2020, 7:55 PM ]

Cardigan Mt. - oil painting in progress

I have been working on a painting of Mt. Cardigan and I was fortunate enough to be able to hike to the top of it recently to breathe in the splendor of that place.  My entire family went with me. My husband helped me to identify the peak names that are in my painting. My whole family was wearing hats that I made specially for them and I felt loved in the act of having them worn.  A gift born of love. A gift created and offered. A gift accepted. A gift cherished and valued.  

It was a sunny winter day with wind-shaped snow clinging to the short alpine trees and our microspikes clinked on the ice as they gripped our feet to the earth.  The hike was one we have done countless times, and when I break the treeline onto the granite bald top, I always pause, turn and drink in the view. I offer a prayer of gratitude to be able to live in such a beautiful place.  Yesterday was no different. It is a place that fills me with contentment. It is a place that puts ease into my body. Slowly I feel my shoulders relax.    

As you climb higher and higher, the trees begin to change from deciduous to coniferous.  Soon there is a fragrant piney smell that makes you want to breathe deeply, drinking in calm, expelling tension.   The trees get shorter. And as you look, you see the dirt is so shallow; there is mostly granite. And yet these trees press their roots down, down, down - breaking through even the tiniest of crevices to stay rooted.  They are short and wind battered, but they stay firmly fixed in place. They are little miracles to me.

New England has been categorized by its lack of religion, especially in contrast to the southern and interior states.  In particular, according to a Gallup poll, Vermont, Maine and New Hampshire are the most irreligious states in the union.  When I moved here in 2005, I had no idea what I was to face. It was here that I would wrestle my anger and PTSD resulting from a traumatic childhood.  It was also a place that was not immune to more turmoil. It was here that I developed Asherman’s syndrome, resulting in serious health problems, the loss of a little girl in late term pregnancy, and more than a month long hospital stay.  It was a time of physical devastation, marital upheaval, depression and spiritual angst. It was in the most unlikely place and time I can imagine for myself to learn to taste healing. Yet, this is a place I value because it is exactly where this healing and deep change in me happened.  

I have heard it said that you can only love what you know.  The Upper Valley is a place I value because it is where I came to know God’s goodness.  His goodness was shown to me through the natural beauty of the Upper Valley, by my husband's faithfulness, by the support of people at church, and by my neighbors and community in Canaan.  It was these shafts of love piercing one of my darkest times that helped me to believe in something bigger than myself. It was a feeble trust at first, but somehow it rooted. When my life was filled with bitter despair, something good and beautiful inside me grew.  Seemingly, there was nothing for faith to cling to, and yet, here it is. A little miracle. Just like the trees clinging to the granite top of Mt. Cardigan.

I celebrate this place because I want my children to see that transformation concretely - to understand that all things are redeemable even when hope is lost.  I want my children to know that miracles happen. I want them to have a physical place to see and touch when they feel hopeless someday. I want them to know God’s presence can break through even their darkest hour, just like they saw happen to their mother.

The very first sentence of the Bible is “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth …. And it was good” Later in this creation account, it says “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them … and it was very good.”   This text is over 3000 years old and is valued as a historical document by both secular and religious scholars alike.  Humanity is very good.  Whether you believe the Bible to be true or not, it cannot be denied that for over 3000 years, many have believed that creativity, beauty, making things, generation of new, is the foundation for all of humanity and civilization.   For me, the very beginning of this ancient text defines art: beauty born of goodness and offered as a gift of love.   

Not so long ago I was in the pottery studio and I was trying to throw a particular shaped pot on the wheel.  I was struggling with it, and created several failed blobs. I asked my friend, Pat, if she would let me watch her throw one.  She took the time to slow down the process for me to truly observe her pressure, her hand placement, her process. Afterward, I asked if she minded if I tried to make that same thing, or if it was a bother to be copied.  She replied, “it is always the highest compliment to be imitated.”  

Imitation is an expression of love, but we must choose wisely what to imitate - what to love.  

And we must remember that love is not a feeling of butterflies and rainbows.  Certainly, it can contain those emotions, but there is plenty of grit and determination involved in love.  Love is a choice. It is caring for and tending of something. It is choosing to steward and protect. It is showing up.  Even when those butterflies and rainbows are fleeting. Even when you don’t feel like it. Even when it is awkward and hard.  We choose to love.

The Upper Valley, and Canaan in particular, are important to me.  But the Upper Valley is not just my home. It belongs to a whole community.  My work is love made tangible. While creating does benefit me, my work is not solely for myself.  It is for my community. It is a gift - like a hat made in love and then worn to the top of a mountain.  

Often I hear people mourn their lack of community.  Talking to people from all different backgrounds I have noticed a common sense of “not belonging”.  These feelings tend to isolate people. With the growth of technology and the digital age, our interactions with one another have decreased. Our isolation has slowly crept in and grown without us realizing.  And we have made our own places of comfort by consuming like-minded things. Online and with the advent of cars, we rarely need to interact in non-homogeneous spaces. There is an online “community” for anything and everyone.  Don’t like what they have to say on Facebook, Twitter or Snapchat? Just delete their friendship. Because of our lack of interaction with neighbors and people in our physical communities, our ideological differences seem heightened.  We no longer see our commonalities.  

I am deeply troubled by the state of our government.  I have great concern for many of the political hot topics of the day.  But what distresses me the most is how I see wedges being driven into our everyday interactions with one another.  With the impeachment trials of President Trump, I hear both sides using destructive language and tones, lobbing insults at one another, sometimes in the form of “jokes”.  But it is not funny. We make snap judgments and harshly write off people who think differently from us. Suddenly conservatives are being called Christian fascists and racist bullies, while liberals are being called immoral socialists and out-of-touch elites. There are “make them cry again” hats. There are “pussy” hats.  Anger, fear and hate are consuming both sides. It has become so partisan that we can’t sit at a table and civilly discuss anything with someone not from our camp. 

But I encourage you to choose to love your place.  Choose to love your community. Choose to participate.  Go to the library. Go to town events. Share a flower from your garden with your neighbor.  Bake banana bread and visit the elderly woman up the street. Make eye contact. Learn people’s names. Show up.  Share a coffee. Let love grow from tending and caring. Be active and purposeful in your choice of what to love.

Though these little acts were once common, they now seem culturally strange and uncomfortable.  Many of us don’t even know our neighbors’ names. These actions are not just for the benefit of the “other”.  If we cannot love what we do not know, then we must allow ourselves to be known in order to experience love. In the act of loving your place, you come to know all of the goodness and all of the flaws, but your goodness and flaws become known too.  The only way for us to conquer this hate that has so perfectly corrupted our society and so effectively perpetuated this cultural war, is to know one another. And in that knowing, we become empathetic to one another’s perspectives. Understanding is generated.  Assumptions of ill intent are diminished. Grace is extended. We will never agree on everything, but gall can be eradicated.


Take a look at the paintings I have been making this year.  They are of the Upper Valley. They are of OUR home. They are to remind you we have so much in common.  We are more alike than not. We are from the same place and share the same space and see the same things.  Our children share classrooms and teachers. Our taxes pay for the same town offices. We know what Listen is and how to make do with few restaurants.  We know who to call for cord wood. We can’t go to the grocery store without running into someone familiar. Our lives are linked in so many ways. Our pasts may have been vastly different and our perspectives may not align, but our present is undeniably similar just by sharing space.  Like those alpine trees growing so beautifully where there is mostly hard granite and very little rich soil, we must choose to let our care for one another press down, down, down. We must look for the crevices in our fear and anger filled lives to find where love and patience and gentle words can happen. 

I want my art to remind us of our common ground; use it as a starting block from which to form relationships with one another.  Only then can we mend our political brokenness and reconcile our different ideologies. Our brokenness will not be fixed with the outcome of the 2020 election, regardless of who comes out on top.  We must choose to quiet our anger and listen to one another now. We must choose to have empathy now. We must chose words and tones of respect now. The situation is dire. We cannot choose to wait until November.  We cannot choose to entertain false hopes. We cannot choose to wait to love. We must choose to love now, and we must love wisely.  


A Gift For You

posted Dec 16, 2019, 11:31 AM by Kathleen Peters   [ updated Dec 16, 2019, 6:15 PM ]

Recently I have had a huge breakthrough in my work - and it was measured with my first solo exhibition of my paintings.  It was a small thing in the art world, but a huge thing for me. It was marked by an opening in which my friends and family came together to help me celebrate. Before the opening, a friend of mine asked me “what makes you feel like your work is valued?”  I didn’t have an answer for her. But I have let the question tumble in mind for some time.  

I am not formally trained in the arts.  I just know I cannot stop making things.  It is innate to me, like breathing. To make things is both joy and because of joy.  Even if there is a sadness or brokenness, there is still a hope of joy and wholeness.  To create is to simultaneously share something of myself and something bigger than myself.  To create is to express and experience and cherish my humanness. It is delight, refreshment, contentment, worth.  

Over the last two decades, I have watched my community,  country and culture be slowly torn apart by division. I have seen it rented politically.  I have seen it ripped morally and spiritually. Great divides have been slashed through this society.  I have heard language and seen behavior further those tears until they seem insurmountable. There is the left and right, people of color and people who are white, the religious and irreligious, rich and poor, educated and non-educated, rural and urban.  The language between these groups has become divisive and accusatory, lobbed at the other, laced with bitterness and anger. The great fissures in our society continue to widen and deepen and destroy.  

I have long realized that I am uniquely positioned to help lessen these chasms because I often tread between these many opposing camps. I was raised in a very conservative family, in a very liberal community.  I grew up in a home riddled with strife and extreme long-term abuse; now my husband and I have a home built on love and peace.  I have known the hopelessness of poverty, and I have lived in plenty. I grew up with the uneducated and then went to graduate school. I have routinely gone to church and yet work with those clinging to secularism.  I have known suffocating doubt and cynicism and yet have had faith grow and blossom. I have experienced a strong body, and have had extreme health problems. I have known the fullness of life and love, but I have known the pain of death.  I am currently in a calm part of my life, yet, I deal with diagnosed complex PTSD. It seems my whole life has been filled with juxtapositions. Because of these experiences, I easily shift between worlds and groups of people that normally stay isolated from one another.  I have grown to understand each group's culture, language and values.

The other day, I had the opportunity to stop at the Audubon for a few minutes of quiet.  I walked through my display quietly, looking at my work alone with only the lights from the windows streaming in.  In the Christian tradition God created beauty - all of creation - out of nothing and bestowed it as a gift for humanity to enjoy. Beauty was born of God's goodness. As I stood there, I was struck with the realization that every single piece in the exhibit was made in response to a moment of wonder.  

As I looked at my Indian Pipes painting, I remembered crouching down in thoughtful awe.  I had seen them countless times, but was delighted to see them again. It was a moment of beholding.  I remember pulling out a loupe and studying them. I remember researching them and seeing the nuances of the different varieties.  I remember being enthralled to learn they are actually a flower, rather than a fungus. Yet, they have no chlorophyll for photosynthesis.  Indian pipes obtain nourishment from the rich organic soil and can thrive in even the deepest, darkest parts of the woods. I remember thinking I am not so unlike an indian pipe flower - I can survive and even thrive in the darkest of circumstances if I ensure my roots extend down deeply into what is good and true.

My Three Waterlilies painting is my favorite piece.  This is not because of the quality of it, but because of the memory it evokes.  It makes me recall the dawn I saw them out on Clark Pond. It was a moment of wonder.  I was captivated by beauty. Though the lilies were stunning, the beauty of the moment was greater.  I had camped in a tent with my children and we were just kayaking lazily back toward the car. It was very early in the morning and the warmth of the sun was on my back.  A loon had just popped up and I watched my youngest son pause as he studied it. My oldest was fishing. Bugs were buzzing and water beetles were darting. It was a moment overflowing with wonder and contentment.  It was a moment in which I was basked in the rich generosity and graciousness and goodness of god. The moment was a gift given to me and the painting oozed out of my fingertips from gratitude. 

Beauty begets beauty, and it is always a gift.  It is always generosity given. As such, it should be cherished.

It is moments like these two that have grown my faith. These little gifts have morphed my bitterness to empathy, my anger to compassion.  It is these little moments that have taught me that God is good - that he can be trusted.  

As I looked around the room, I saw my paintings like illuminated crumbs of thankfulness dropped along my dark path toward faith.  

So what makes my art valuable?  I still can’t answer that fully.  But my paintings are little gifts of wonder given to me and then passed on to you. I hope it gives you a moment of wonder too, regardless of your worldview.  I hope it makes you pause and remember there is beauty and goodness even in the midst of our factions and dysfunction.  Let that beauty and goodness seep into you. Let it show you our sameness is bigger than our differences.  Let my work give you a desperately needed respite. Let it give rest in frustration, comfort in mourning, ease in despair.  Let it encourage grace and forgiveness. Let it be a catalyst for regeneration in your heart. Let it give you strength to reach across our divides, to lessen these distance between us.  Let it bridge these cleaves among us. My work is a gift of goodwill to you, an offering and homage.  

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