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I’m writing to you today from my backyard garden, where the cosmos are in full bloom. My mom used to plant stretches of cosmos in two separate flower gardens in the backyard of the house I grew up in. There’s a photo of my younger brother and me, laughing as we sit among those cosmos—we look so happy, the smiles reaching deep into our eyes and out into the sunlight. I imagine my mom taking that photo and the joy she surely felt in that moment too.

That’s what cosmos bring to me now. As I watch the tall, delicate stems swaying in the August breeze, blossoms in every shade from blush pink to deep magenta, I find myself thinking about the colors in my own work—the pigments I reach for again and again, and the way certain hues seem to carry an energy all their own.

Lately, in my studio, I’ve noticed a shift. I’m thinking less about capturing the natural world exactly as it appears, and more about translating what I feel when I see it. Not necessarily through my eyes, but through my mind’s eye—the inner lens where color, memory, and meaning mix together.

In my recent paintings, something that might look like a dot or a fingerprint to you is, to me, a wish for abundance. A sweep of cobalt could be the echo of moonlight I felt one night by the water.

In one new piece, I pressed a thick fingerprint of color into the upper right corner—not only as a guiding moon, but as a way of leaving my DNA in the work.

This shift in perspective has grown out of time spent away from the easel—walking along the shore, sitting in my garden, giving space for the colors and shapes to arrive before I try to catch them on canvas.

But not every painting flows easily.

The other day, I was waiting for a layer to dry when impatience got the better of me. I poured yellow and emerald green over the whole thing… and instantly regretted it. When it dried, the beauty I hoped to reveal wasn’t there—just a muddled, overworked mess.

That’s when I remembered why I keep five or six paintings going at once. It means I can pivot when something flops. It means I’m not married to any one outcome. And it means I can return, again and again, to what I love most—playing with color without fear.

When fear and doubt creep in (and they always do), I don’t stop painting. I start something new. I chase the colors that make me feel alive. And slowly, the creative flow returns.

If you’ve been following my creative journey for a while, you know that I’ve not only been painting and teaching, but I also finished writing a novel.

As I mentioned in my interview on the ReBloom Podcast, I wrote a fiction novel about a woman who could step into her paintings. However, what I didn’t mention, is that was the idea behind the first draft of my manuscript. But, just like my paintings, the novel has MANY layers.

In 2009, I got super burned out writing that manuscript. I had this goal to finish and submit it to an author friend for feedback by the end of the year. So what was I doing on New Year’s Eve? Working hardcore to finish my manuscript.

I got so caught up in the result, I completely forgot to enjoy the journey.

That led me to take a step away from writing and heal my heart through painting, which eventually (and rather quickly) led me to paint full-time. It ultimately became the impetus for my creative business and life as a professional artist. I set my book aside, just as I had my art for so many years.

But then, a few years ago, in 2016, I lost my lovely mom.

Creating has always been a healing process for me, so I went back to writing my novel to heal and honor my mom. Writing my story down became a different kind of healing. It felt like getting out the words into stories filled in the gaps the paint couldn’t touch.

I rewrote the entire novel (many times).

The entire direction of the novel didn’t change much – as the heart and main plot points remained, but I took everything deeper. I started to write again to rectify that part of me that wanted to believe.

It was such a healing process to write this new version of my novel and to say all of the things I never said. To answer questions that will forever go unanswered but can be imagined and reinvisioned in fiction.

It’s been an amazing process to take all of these new learnings and emotions and infuse them into my paintings, especially in my latest collection.

So, from one creative to another—if you find yourself stuck, try letting go of the “perfect” result. Begin again. Pour out the colors that call to you. Write the poem deep inside your heart. Let the layers, the fingerprints, the hidden marks tell their own story.

You never know what beauty might unfurl.

Sending you 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.