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I’m sitting in my garden watching a swallowtail butterfly circling the lilies around my deck. I’ve got my cup of black coffee steaming beside me along with my sketchbook. It all reminds me to breathe. These are the small moments I come back to again and again when life feels too fast. And summer has felt fast.

I’ve been craving that time as a kid where I had summers off and there was no real plan—just play. When time didn’t feel like something to manage. When I ran barefoot through the backyard pretending I was a princess with a stable full of horses. When I built forts in the woods, sang to the trees, and followed whatever wild idea came next.

It felt like the whole world was mine to play in.

I’ve been longing for that kind of spaciousness again. That feeling of following joy without a plan, of letting the day unfold on its own time. And I’ve realized that’s why I paint the way I do—with freedom first, without trying to control the outcome.

I recently returned from leading my very first painting retreat in France—four dreamy days in the countryside, painting with a lovely group of artists who have now become friends. The whole experience filled me with so much joy and clarity. I’ve returned with a full heart, and I can feel that energy infusing everything I’m creating right now.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I paint—and why.

Someone recently commented on one of my abstract paintings:

“I love this. It feels almost chaotic, but in a fantastic way. I could look at this all day and not get bored.”

It stopped me in my tracks.

Because I do have a thing for organized chaos. It’s how I keep my studio. It’s how I arrange my closets. Everything has a place—but it’s a soft sort of order. Nothing too rigid. Just all the paints in the top drawer of an old toolbox, a ceramic cup I made with my pencils and sharpener (pencil shavings get sharpened right into the cup so there’s no mess), a vase I found at an antiques shop when I was 14 for my brushes.

That’s what I’m doing with my paintings too.

Taking strands of memory, story, emotion, and experience and layering them together to make some kind of beauty, some kind of sense. A connection. Like how Dumbledore uses the Pensieve in Harry Potter to extract strands of memory, sometimes I feel like I can lean into my paintings and step into a memory—or even a different world, like the one I wrote about in my novel.

I’ve never been able to begin a painting on a blank canvas. I always start by making a mess—squeezing out a few colors of ink or paint and smudging them together with brushes, palette knives, or even just my hands. I don’t think about what it’s going to become. I just follow the color.

It’s like I have to release control first. Let the chaos in. Let the colors run and bleed and pool. And then, only later, do I start shaping things into something more intentional—letting the layers build, allowing old parts to peek through. That’s where the magic happens.

This process has been with me since I first began painting in 2009.

At the time, I’d just lost the first job I truly loved (as a landscaper). I’d tried so many careers before that—copywriting, journalism, photography, programming, graphic design, floral design—and while they were interesting, none of them felt like home.

Painting did.

And I didn’t start painting because I thought it would become a career. I started because I needed to heal. I needed to reconnect with the self I had hidden away for too long. I needed to remember how to feel—how to let things be messy, and real, and meaningful.

Now, fifteen years later, I still paint to return to my truest self. Like following a compass. It’s my way home. And I still believe the layers we create—on the canvas, and in life—are where the story really lives.

That’s when I remembered how much of creativity is simply allowing space—for the chaos, for the beauty, for the joy to return.

It was a funny realization for me when, just a few years ago, I came to understand that not everyone sees the world the way I do—with so much imagination and color. I used to think we all had that as kids, so surely everyone must carry it into adulthood too.

Now I see that this is one of the many unique things that makes me me. It’s why I feel called to paint and write. And I’ve learned to let those innate qualities stand out.

I hope you do the same with yours.

I wonder—does your writing or art process mirror the way you live your life?

Is there something you’ve been hiding that your heart has been quietly nudging you to let shine—or return to?

What would it feel like to give yourself the space—to slow down, and play again?

You don’t have to know everything at once.

Sometimes all it takes is knowing that one, next step, and permission to begin.

Sending so much love,

xo Juliette

P.S. Since I’ve been feeling called back to simplicity and creative play, I thought you might be too. That same spirit is woven into all of my online courses. There’s no right or wrong—just following joy, trusting your creative voice, and finding your own rhythm. If you’d like to see more of what I teach, you can explore my painting courses and free resources here.

All photos and artwork by Juliette Crane

This essay was originally published on my Substack, Living the Way of the Happy Painter.