There's a version of creative work that requires stillness. Empty calendars. Clear desks. Long, uninterrupted stretches of time where you can sink into the process without distraction or obligation. I know that version exists because I've experienced it before. But it's not the version I'm living right now.

Right now, I'm about 32 weeks pregnant. We've just moved into a new home that we immediately decided to renovate. New flooring is down, new lighting is in, and my studio is being completely refit. I'm working from the dining table most days, or outside when the weather allows. Energy feels finite in a way it hasn't before, and I'm learning to be more intentional with where it goes.

This isn't the season for long, luxurious studio days. It's not the season for perfectionism or endless refinement. But it is, somehow, still a season for creating.

I've been thinking about what it means to make work while life is actively shifting around you. When the circumstances aren't ideal. When your body is changing, your home is in transition, and your capacity is smaller than it used to be. There's a part of me that wants to wait. To pause everything until the baby arrives, until the house is finished, until life feels more stable and predictable again.

But art doesn't work that way. And neither, I'm learning, does life.

The pieces I'm drawn to right now reflect where I am. Earthier. More grounded. Softer. There's a calmness I'm seeking in the work, not because everything around me is calm, but because I need that anchor. I need something steady to return to when the rest of life feels like it's moving faster than I can keep up with.

Artwork featured: "Monteverde" on Canvas

And perhaps that's always been the role of art, both in making it and in living with it. It doesn't wait for perfect conditions. It exists alongside the mess and the motion and the uncertainty. It offers a sense of continuity when everything else is in flux.

I think about the people who reach out saying they're waiting for the right moment to choose a piece. Waiting until the renovation is done. Waiting until they've moved. Waiting until life feels less chaotic. And I understand that instinct completely. But I also wonder if the art might be exactly what helps you move through the transition rather than something you reward yourself with once it's over.

The La Palma set in our dining room didn't wait for the skirting boards to be painted. Monteverde didn't need the house to be finished before it could belong here. The work I'm creating now isn't being made in some pristine, controlled environment. It's being made in the middle of everything. And somehow, that feels more honest.

Artwork featured: "La Palma" on Canvas

There's a particular kind of energy required to create while life is demanding so much of you in other ways. You can't rely on long hours or endless reserves. You have to be more selective. More focused. More willing to trust that what you're making in these small, stolen moments is still valuable, still meaningful, still worth doing.

And the same is true for choosing art. You don't need life to be resolved before you bring something beautiful into your space. You don't need perfect timing or ideal circumstances. Sometimes, the piece you choose during the messy middle becomes the thing that helps you remember what matters. What you're building toward. What you want to carry forward once everything settles.

I'm not sure when the renovation will be fully complete. I'm not sure what this next season with a newborn will ask of me or how my creative practice will shift to accommodate it. But I know the work will continue. Not in spite of the change, but alongside it. And the pieces that emerge from this season will carry something of this experience within them. The groundedness. The intentionality. The quiet insistence that beauty doesn't require perfect conditions.

So if you're in a season of transition, of motion, of life moving faster than you'd like, I hope you'll give yourself permission to choose the art that speaks to you now. Not later, when everything is settled. Now, while you're in the middle of it all. Because the piece that resonates during change is often the one you'll love most once everything calms down.

Art doesn't pause for perfect timing. Neither should you.

Artwork featured: "Pacifica Earth I" - Cable Beach

All artwork is available via my online gallery.