Life gets full.

There are things we have to do, things we want to do, people who need us, places we need to be, lists that never seem completely finished.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I keep thinking about the small moments.

The few quiet minutes with coffee before the day begins.
Stopping long enough to notice the sky.
Taking a photograph because the light is beautiful.
Walking outside for a few minutes.
Making a mark on a page.
Writing down one thought before it disappears.

Maybe mindfulness doesn’t always have to mean setting aside a large block of quiet time.

Maybe sometimes it is simply noticing that we are here.

I’ve been looking back through photographs from this summer, and so many of the moments I remember most are not the big ones. They are the little pieces in between—the things I stopped long enough to see.

I want to make more room for those moments.

A few minutes to create.
A few minutes to reflect.
A few minutes to really look at the person in front of me or the place where I am.

Not because every minute needs to be productive.

Maybe making every minute count actually means allowing some of them to simply be lived.

This is something I want to explore more: how we find these little pockets of presence inside very busy lives.

The small things that bring us back.

The small things that, over time, become a life.

Thank you for following along with me here. Wishing you all the best, always.

-Char

Original watercolors for sale at Jezebel Gallery and Studio

* She Is Her Own Witness, 2026, pictured above.

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All art and writing ©️Charlene Lutz 2026

Hello friends,

I’ll be taking a little summer break from the newsletter to rest, recharge, and enjoy the season. Thank you so much for reading and being here — I look forward to reconnecting with you soon. I’ll still be posting on Instagram and keeping my website up to date so please visit me there.

Wishing you a beautiful summer,

Char

Our sweet little addition! Meet Sam.

A beautiful sunset after an unusually cloudy day earlier this week.

Silent Blessing


The mountain rain
asks nothing of us
but trust.

Still, the cactus
opens anyway.

The sky darkens,
the earth waits,
and something greater than us
keeps moving closer
through silence.

Not everything sacred
arrives all at once.

***

When Death Comes
By Mary Oliver


When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world

In remembrance of Raymond John Lutz

October 28, 1947 ~ April 28, 2026

Peace and Love,

~Char

Dust and clouds covered the Jemez Mountains today, but they were still there beyond what I could see. A quiet reminder that not everything absent is gone — some things simply wait beyond the veil until the light returns.

Light. April, 2026.

Lucid optimism

I’ve been thinking about this lately and trying to live more fully in the present — in the quiet, ordinary moments that are here before they pass all at once.

To trust what comes next is not blind positivity. It is choosing to remain openhearted and engaged with life even after seeing its sorrow, uncertainty, and impermanence. It is understanding that doubt and hope can exist together.

A small figure standing against the evening light, a quiet salute — honoring the day, the passing moment, and perhaps all we carry unseen. Even at dusk, there is still something in us that turns toward the light.

There is an inner chord that keeps us going — something quiet, steady, and difficult to explain. We continue not because we are certain of outcomes, but because love, care, and presence still matter. The smallest unseen acts often bear fruit long after we are gone.

The river does not force its way forward, yet it reaches the sea. Trust is not passivity. It is moving with life instead of against it.

Perhaps this is enough: to stay present, to keep offering what is ours to give, and to trust that even the quietest moments are carrying us somewhere meaningful.

***

In Peace and Love,

Char

Faithful, watercolor, 2026.

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A New Way Through, 11”x14”, watercolor

**

Moving With It

Time can feel less like a schedule
and more like weather.

A cloud building slowly over the mountain,
wind moving through without asking,
light changing everything and then slipping away.

There are moments in a day like that—
something unfolding at its own pace,
refusing to be hurried.

A conversation that needs space.
A feeling not yet formed.
A path that only appears once walking has begun.

The instinct is often to push, to resolve,
to bring things into clarity too soon.
But that effort carries a certain friction.

When the pressure softens,
when movement shifts from forcing to following,
something opens.

Not everything becomes clear—
but there is a sense of alignment,
like stepping into a current
instead of against it.

Watercolor, 5”x8”

**

Already Changing

The land never holds still.

Even mountains—
they shift with light, with season, with memory.
Color deepens, fades, returns in another form.

Nothing keeps its exact edge for long.

Still, there is a tendency to hold,
to brace, to preserve what feels good
from becoming something else.

But the fleeting quality is the thing itself.

A shadow moving across the ground,
a brief bloom of color at dusk,
the warmth of something held
just for a moment.

When this is allowed,
more becomes visible.

Not through grasping—
but through a quieter kind of seeing.

And it begins to feel less like loss,
more like being let in
on something.

**

One Gesture at a Time

There is a kind of attention
that feels like standing in a field
with no need to leave it.

Nothing pulling forward,
nothing needing repair behind.

Just one small movement at a time—
a step, a breath, a word.

When attention scatters,
everything tightens.
Moments blur,
and there is always a sense of being elsewhere.

But when attention settles,
even briefly,
space opens.

The next step becomes enough.
Then the next.

Not a plan, not a performance—
just a quiet sequence
of being here.

Sunsets, cactus and Violet captured this week

**

Staying

This is not instruction.

More like a rhythm
that appears, disappears,
and returns.

A small shift—
from shaping time
to noticing how it moves.

From holding
to allowing passage.

From leaving the moment
to staying.

The sky changes whether it is watched or not.
The day moves whether it is noticed or not.

But in those moments of presence—
even a few breaths—
there is a sense of enoughness.

Not because anything is solved,
but because nothing is resisted.

Just this,
as it is,
moving.

**

Watercolor, 5”x8”

In Gratitude,

XXX Char

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The Slot Canyon Trail at Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument feels like stepping into a living sculpture—narrow stone walls rising close, light shifting above, and each turn unfolding quietly. The climb opens to wide desert views, where sky and earth stretch far beyond the canyon’s hush.

Kasha-Katuwe Tent Rocks National Monument was formed by volcanic eruptions 6–7 million years ago, Tent Rocks is known for its cone-shaped formations—soft ash and pumice carved slowly by wind and water into narrow canyons and towering spires. The name “Kasha-Katuwe” means “white cliffs” in the language of the Pueblo de Cochiti, whose ancestral land this is.
One of the historic Pueblo peoples, Cochiti has lived along the Rio Grande for centuries, with deep traditions in pottery, storytelling, and ceremonial life. The surrounding landscape—including Tent Rocks—is not just geological, but cultural and spiritual, held in relationship across generations.

***

Sea and Sky, watercolor, 14”x20”

The Middle Way is an ongoing exploration of the meeting place between outer and inner landscape—where memory, presence, and form quietly come together. After time in Cochiti, I found myself carrying the forms home: the circular movement of sky and earth, the soft rise of stone, the meeting of water, air, and light.

I notice how I carry places home—not as images, but as quiet structures that shape how I see, how I move, and how I make. Do you do this?

Perhaps what we take in doesn’t disappear, but lives on in small, unseen ways—shaping our rhythm, our attention, and the way we meet the world, slowly becoming part of who we are, and who we are still becoming.

***

Wishing you a connected, peaceful and inspired week.

XXX

~Char

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Students in several grades explore symmetry through drawing, cutting and mono printing, creating vibrant butterflies while learning about their lifecycle and native New Mexico species—where art, science, and curiosity take flight together.

There are moments in a classroom that feel almost suspended in time—quiet, unplanned, and unexpectedly luminous.

We had settled into our work that day, a fourth-grade class gently humming with focus. Paints were open, brushes moving, the soft rhythm of making filling the room. I sat down beside a student and began to paint a little myself, joining them in that shared space where words aren’t always necessary.

Then, without warning, she turned to me and asked,

“What’s your dream?”

It was the kind of question that arrives without preamble—simple, direct, and somehow vast. I paused, caught in that brief and tender amazement that someone so young would ask something so big… and trust me to answer.

I told her that my dream is to help people find their creativity. It felt like the simplest way to say something much larger. Because the truth is, we all carry many dreams—layered, shifting, unfolding over time—but in that moment, that was the one that rose to the surface.

So I asked her,

“What’s your dream?”

And just like that, something opened.

What began as a quiet exchange became a full table conversation—voices chiming in, ideas forming, dreams spoken aloud. Some were clear and bold, others tentative and still taking shape. But each one held a kind of truth, a glimpse into who they are becoming.

It struck me then—how natural it is for children to speak of dreams. How unguarded. How immediate. There’s no hesitation in imagining, no apology in wanting something more, something meaningful, something alive.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learn to tuck those dreams away. We begin to measure them, question them, reshape them into something more “reasonable.” We forget that once, we answered questions like that without fear.

But maybe the dream never really leaves.

Maybe it waits—in quiet moments, in unexpected questions, in the simple act of sitting down and making something with our hands. Maybe it lives just beneath the surface, ready to be remembered.

That day wasn’t remarkable because of anything I did as a teacher. It was remarkable because a child asked a real question—and in doing so, gave all of us permission to remember something essential.

So I find myself wondering now, the same question echoing back:

What’s your dream?

And not the one that feels polished or practical—but the one that feels a little closer to wonder. The one that might still be waiting for your attention.

Because sometimes, all it takes is a single question…

and the willingness to listen.

XXX

Char

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Sunroot Rising, watercolor, 14x20 in.

My first large piece in the series titled, The Middle Way.

***

Sunroot Rising

Rooted in shadow,
rising in color,
singing toward the sun—
what is soft overcomes what is hard,
what is gentle transforms what is fixed.

***

I tried, a few months ago, to work larger again.

I wanted it. I thought I was ready.

But the paper held a tension I couldn’t resolve.

Nothing opened, nothing flowed.

So I let it go.

Coming back now, something has shifted.

Not in effort, but in timing.

I’m learning that what feels like resistance

is sometimes a quiet kind of wisdom—

a reminder that growth has its own pace.

And when the moment is right,

what once felt forced

becomes natural.

Learning to trust the quiet seasons.

What is meant to grow

is already on its way—

rooted, reaching,

and rising in its own time.

Wishing you a flowing and inspired week,

XXX Char

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Desert Offering, watercolor, 2026.

Returning


Clear seeing
arrives quietly.

Cycles turn
beneath the surface—
roots stronger than flowers
working through
dry survival,
unseen toil.

In full silence,
something reconciles.
A passive growth,
a steady becoming.

Balance
is not perfection,
but curiosity
that softens it.

Circles of gratitude widen
in moments of rest,
in fragrant air,
in faith
held low and steady.

There are depths yet to reach,
journeys that open
into more questions—

and still,
peace-

When nothing resists it.

Home, 2026

***

Perhaps there is a quiet way of meeting ourselves again—one that doesn’t ask for more, but gently invites less. In a world that leans toward urgency and output, it’s easy to move away from our own rhythm—to rush, to override, to forget.

And yet, nature seems to keep a different time…

through cycles, through pauses, through all that grows unseen. Roots may deepen long before anything blooms.

We may not be able to step outside of what is asked of us, but there are small moments—a breath, a pause, a soft noticing—that might offer a return. Whatever helps us come back to a steadier place, to a quieter center—perhaps that is enough

Wishing you a peaceful week,

Char

Home, 2026.

Still Rising, watercolor, 2026.

The Middle Way

There is a quiet shift that happens slowly—so slowly you almost miss it.

It doesn’t arrive all at once, or with clarity. It comes through living, through paying attention, through the soft rearranging of what once felt certain. Lately, I’ve been noticing how much of this shift in my own life has been shaped by the natural world—by watching how everything has its place, its season, its timing.

Nothing rushes, and yet everything unfolds.

For a long time, I moved alongside more rigid ideas of progress and outcome. I listened to the language of productivity, of pushing forward, of needing things to become something. But what I’m beginning to understand—what I am still learning—is a different rhythm. A quieter path. Something closer to a middle way.

It feels less like striving and more like listening.

There are threads behind us, I think—unseen but deeply felt. Even when things don’t turn out the way we hoped, they seem to carry us somewhere we were meant to go. Not perfectly, not without difficulty, but toward something that feels, in the end, more aligned. More whole.

This is the space my work has been growing from.

A Gentle Passing, watercolor, 2026

Since moving to New Mexico, I’ve been immersed in a body of paintings that feel different from anything I’ve made before. Many of you have asked about them—their process, where they begin, how they take shape.

The truth is, they begin without a plan.

I don’t sketch them out. I don’t map them in advance. I start painting, and something begins to emerge. It’s an intuitive process—one that asks for patience and trust. I spend a lot of time stepping away from the work, letting it rest, and then returning to it with fresh eyes. Over time, forms reveal themselves. Shapes, symbols, and structures begin to come forward, and I slowly carve them into clarity.

It’s less about creating and more about uncovering.

I’ve been painting for as long as I can remember—but this moment feels different. There’s a kind of balance that has settled into the work. A sense of symmetry. A deep connection to the land, to cycles, to something steady beneath the surface.

The paintings hold that.

They carry elements of the natural world, but they are not representations of it. Instead, they move through a symbolic language—forms that echo cycles, thresholds, directional movement, and the interplay between descent and emergence. There is an attention to circular time, to balance, to the quiet structures that exist both in nature and within us.

In that way, the work is less about image and more about orientation.

The same is true in the writing.

The poems I’ve been sharing here are grounded in the natural world, but they’re not meant to narrate personal history directly. They move through something more collective—through memory that is carried rather than taught, through gestures and rhythms that feel inherited. The voice often shifts into a kind of listening role—a witness, a holder, rather than a declarer of meaning.

They carry elements of nature, but also something more internal—something shaped over time. There is a clarity in them that feels hard-won, something that has been forming quietly for years. At the same time, they feel connected to something beyond me. Something larger, less visible, but deeply present.

I don’t always have language for it, but I can feel it.

Many of the titles come in the same way the images do—intuitively, but resonant. They seem to exist both within my own inner landscape and out in the world at large, as if they belong to both places at once

Our Living Vessel, watercolor, 2026.

Lately, I’ve also been thinking about how this work lives alongside the writing I’ve been sharing here. The poems and the paintings feel like they are in conversation—two ways of approaching the same questions. Themes of ancestry, memory, cycles, and quiet forms of healing continue to surface. Not as statements, but as invitations.

What does it mean to live attentively?

What do we carry that we didn’t consciously choose?

How do we move in a way that allows things to unfold, rather than forcing them into form?

These aren’t questions I’m trying to answer directly. They feel more like something to sit with—to return to over time.

That’s part of what this space has become for me.

A place to share slowly. To think out loud. To offer work that isn’t rushed or finalized, but alive and still becoming.

You can see the full collection of paintings (titledThe Middle Way) here.

If you’ve been following along, or if you’re just arriving here, I’d really love to hear from you. If you have questions about the paintings, about process, about anything that’s been shared here—please feel free to ask. Your reflections, your interpretations, your own experiences with this kind of work—they matter, and they shape this space as much as anything I create.

As always, thank you for being here—for reading, for looking, for engaging in a way that honors slowness and connection.

Wishing you a week head filled with deep presence, creativity, and love.

~Char

All writing and art ©️Charlene Lutz 2026.

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Desert Sun, watercolor.

Below Rising Dust


Below rising dust
and a lifting wind,
and the shadow of the mountain rising, beyond clouds and sky,
There is a way of moving
like morning over open land—
slow enough
that nothing startles.

A way of listening
like trees along a river,
receiving the water
without trying to hold it.

Some days
thoughts rise like low dust
on a distant road,
blurring what was once clear.
Yet anyone who has watched
a pond at dusk knows—
leave the water alone
and the silt will settle.

Clarity returns
without being forced.

The day arrives
in its own time:
light touching stone,
shadow folding back into earth.

No seed hurries
its way through the soil.
No horizon argues
with the turning sky.

The land keeps offering this:
emptiness is not absence.

It is the wide valley
where everything
has room to belong.
And when the valley opens
and thoughts settle,
clarity emerges
like water softly resting
after the ripple
of a stone.

Stitched into life
we find ourselves here—
at once
the great mountain,
the hawk,
and the smallest insect.
We are wild horses running
across deep canyons
carved of stone.

Standing like cottonwoods,
watchful as sparrows.
We are twisted roots of trees,
an intricate, carefully designed chaos
hidden beneath the ground.

Blooming.
Dreaming
Falling like stars.

Breathing fire and dust,
thoughts of ash and stone—
and still
life moving freely again
through everything,
as wind through grass,
as water
finding its way.

Circle of the Land, watercolor.

After a month of stepping away to tend to a few life moments that needed my attention, I’m grateful to return here again. I hope this past stretch of time has offered each of you some measure of peace, creativity, and quiet moments of your own.

During the pause, I found myself listening deeply—especially to my body and the rest I was craving. A quiet reflection on moving gently through the world and remembering my place within it.

I’m happy to be back here with you!

-Char

Art and writing ©️Charlene Lutz

In this fifth-grade Talavera tile project, students created linoleum block prints inspired by traditional tile patterns. Through carving and printmaking, students explored symmetry, repetition, and color while developing an understanding of pattern, positive and negative space, and the printmaking process

After studying traditional New Mexico architecture, including pueblos, this third grade student designed a small-scale interior as part of a larger architectural structure using cardboard, paint, and fabric. The project explored architectural form, spatial relationships, and surface detail, emphasizing hands-on experimentation and the translation of cultural study into an imaginative, personal space.

**

Dear friends,

I’m taking an intentional pause and will return in March.

I’ve been reflecting on how pauses in life often arrive not as interruptions, but as points of guidance—moments that help us re-orient, ground, and listen more closely to what’s asking to emerge. This is one of those moments for me.

As I move into a new home with my family and stand within a season of professional transition—public school teaching, workshops, and new directions taking shape—I’m choosing to slow down and honor both the external changes and the inner shifts they invite. There is a sense of spring already present, even as winter still holds us.

This pause is a way of tending the ground, allowing things to settle, and aligning with the rhythm of what’s coming next.

Thank you, as always, for being here and for honoring the wisdom of timing. I look forward to reconnecting soon.

Sending Love, Peace and Creativity,

~Char

**

Part one of bookmaking at Artisan ABQ.

Life Wisdom - Words of Taoism

Listen to Your Inner Seasons - Taoism

Listen now

a year ago · 66 likes · 4 comments · Words of Taoism

The Land, watercolor, 2026

In the Pulse


We live in the moment before—
before the bear’s foot meets earth,
before the hawk descends,
before the sky turns
from indigo
to bitter orange
to blue.

This is the pulse.

We are here—
single threads of the whole.


Our roots run beneath the fire—
smoldering,
not burning.


We are not separate.

Every feeling
travels the weave, this tapestry
woven in time.

What aches in one place
is held by the whole.
When we hold ourselves,
we hold each other—
lifting what is present,
making room for what is coming.
The weaving heals
as it rises.

We walk this worn path
With eyes of an eagle—
through earth,
into what endures.

The wounds of our ancestors
are threads left in our care.
Scars their offering—
asking us to break the pattern
and begin again.

We are canyons.
We are vessels—
shaped to carry
what moves through us.

Vessel For Living, watercolor, 2026

We are held as we learn to hold—

listening for the pulse

that moves through us all.

With gratitude

for being part of the whole.

Wishing you all healing, love, and continued creativity.

~Char

The Middle Place, Watercolor, 2026

The Middle Way


Meet me in the middle—
where the Grandmothers wait,
where time folds
under the old stars,

I will find you where the land rises,
where the climb burns the legs
and the roots refuse the surface,
saying: go deeper or not at all.

Here, roots split stone
and remember water.
Here, the earth listens—
through ash and marrow,
through centuries of hands
that planted without witness.

We travel downward first,
through stories buried in the dark,
through bone and seed,
through what was never named
but never lost.

Then we lift again—
on wings,
standing inside the turning.

Winter cups the seed.
Night holds what morning will become.
We live inside this motion—
everything passing,
everything arriving.

We are called guardians of time,
though we do not hold it.
Our seeds fall into frost,
into silence,
into faith.

We do not know
which will take,
which will rise,
which will disappear
into the long memory of ancestors.
Still, we scatter—
because trust is older than proof.

This is how we preserve:
by trusting.
This is how we protect:
by releasing.

We are not monuments.
We are ghosts and echoes
with hands in the soil,
walking backward into the future,
carrying what cannot be owned.

What will you leave here—
a mark,
or a resonance?
Something without a name
but found in the chest,
felt in the bones?

Will your children—
and your children’s children—
recognize it
when they dig where the roots speak,
when they look between what is named?

Stillness is a doorway.
Silence gathers us.

And then—
the light shifts.
Not suddenly,
just enough to notice.
Something loosens its grip.
Something is passed
without being handed over.

The ground keeps listening.
The seeds wait.
Time folds again,
and we are already
inside it.

At the Threshold, Watercolor, 2026

***

Sharing a few things I’ve been loving this week — small anchors that have been helping me slow down and listen a little more closely.

*I’ve been spending time with the music of Carlos Nakai and this playlist in particular. It feels spacious and grounding, the kind of sound that makes room for breath and reflection rather than filling the silence.

*I also listened to this podcast episode and found myself returning to it more than once. There’s something in the pacing and the way the ideas unfold that feels especially resonant right now.

*And finally, this short piece on balance being a rhythm rather than a state has been sitting with me. It mirrors a lot of what I’ve been feeling and noticing lately — about movement, attention, and trust.

Life Wisdom - Words of Taoism

Balance is a rhythm, not a state

Read more

9 months ago · 235 likes · 17 comments · Words of Taoism

If any of these meet you where you are, I’m glad. Thank you for being here and for taking the time to read and listen alongside me.

Signs For Crossing, Watercolor, 2026

Sending Love and Light,

~Char

***If you are local to the Albuquerque NM. area, there is still time to register for Southwest Winter: Accordion Book Making with Watercolor.

Saturday February 14th & 21st / 12:00pm – 3:00pm @ Artisan ABQ

Art and writing ©️Charlene Lutz 2026/www.charlenelutz.com

Skyfall, 2026

Sky Holder, 2026.

The Living


We are the witness
and the becoming.

We are land standing,
water moving,
fire carried,
sky opening.

In every form, every phase,
we return—
threads of time
drawn through our hands.

The earth breathes as body.

The sky opens as self.

By night, we are held by stars.
Old constellations still know our names.

The daylight returns us to form, dreams keep our day.

A harbor holds us.
We learn to be shelter.

This is the way of it:
the body remembers land,
sky remembers us.

Every becoming
is belonging.

***

She Is Her Own Witness, 2026.

May we be held in love.

May we grow through what we carry.

May we learn to see what endures in us,

and the quiet strength in one another.

XXX Char

Art and writing ©️Charlene Lutz 2026

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Sanctuary, Reflected. Watercolor, 10”x 14”

The Way Opens
 

Moon keeps time
without counting.

Indigo twilight
arrives on its own,

floating between
surrender and trust.

Nothing forced,
Nothing held.

What has been outgrown
returns to earth to shape again.

Embody
what was forgotten,

the way opens

as sanctuary within.

***

Moon Keeps Time, Watercolor, 10”x14”

***

Lately, I’ve been spending time with the work of Chen Li, the writer and teacher behind Words of Taoism on Substack. I first found him through his writing, and then through his podcast, and something about the steadiness of his voice and the simplicity of his insights made me want to linger.

Chen Li’s work is rooted in Taoism, an ancient philosophy that reminds us how to live in harmony with the natural flow of life — not by striving harder, but by softening, listening, and learning when to let go. What I appreciate most is how he translates these timeless teachings into something deeply accessible. His reflections don’t feel lofty or abstract; they meet you right where you are, in the middle of daily life.

Through Words of Taoism, Chen Li offers short, contemplative writings that invite pause. They feel like small clearings — moments to step out of urgency and back into presence. His podcast extends this feeling, weaving Taoist wisdom with gentle storytelling and reflection, often touching on themes like simplicity, balance, inner calm, and trusting life’s rhythms.

Beyond writing and audio, his website offers a generous collection of free tools and guided practices — from journaling prompts and energy-awareness exercises to slow, intentional reading journeys through the Tao Te Ching. Everything he offers seems guided by the same quiet question: What happens when we stop forcing and begin flowing?

Spending time with Chen Li’s work feels less like learning something new and more like remembering something old — a softer way of being, already within reach.

If you’re interested in learning more, you can find him here:

Words of Taoism

Life Wisdom - Words of Taoism

Ideas for living a simpler life and finding your inner peace.

***

Wishing you love, creativity and a light-filled week,

~Char

Encounter, watercolor. 4”x 8” *This began as a watercolor test for students. An accidental mark appeared, and a third grader decided it was a unicorn — or maybe a pegasus — and asked if I’d finish it. Nearby, another shape quietly became an owl. The rest unfolded as a small, unexpected meeting.

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A Place to Land

***

I am learning

that not every arrival makes noise.

Some come softly—

a weight settling into the body,

a remembering beneath the feet.

*

There is a wisdom

that lives below the thinking mind,

older than language,

steady as soil holding a seed

through long seasons of not-knowing.

I have followed the pull of unseen wings,

choices made without proof,

trust shaped more by listening

than by certainty.

*

The air holds you, it turns out,

when you stop fighting it.

Things reveal themselves slowly—

patterns emerging where chaos once lived,

doors opening only after

you stop knocking

and stand still long enough to notice

you are already inside.

*

This journey is not about becoming more,

but about arriving—

fully, honestly—

into the place where your breath deepens,

your shoulders lower,

and your body says yes

before your mind can argue.

*

Here, there is calm without stagnation,

movement without urgency,

guidance that feels less like instruction

and more like recognition.

*

A knowing that says:

you belong here—

in this moment,

in this body,

in this unfolding life.

And for now, that is enough.

***

Thank you for sharing this space with me.

May you feel the ground beneath you,

the quiet lift of unseen wings,

and the gentle assurance

that you are exactly where you need to be.

In Love, Light and Creativity,

Char

***If you have a moment please visit my website and learn more about my first art workshop in New Mexico. Southwest Winter: Accordion Bookmaking with Watercolor is a two week workshop in Albuquerque this February. I would love to see you there!

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In progress, watercolor.

Mariposa Preserve, Rio Rancho, NM.

*

This past week has been a time of rest, celebration, renewal, and reflection. I keep noticing how the things that truly nourish us are often simple and deeply connected — the steady grounding of our feet on the floor, the quiet landscapes that remind us to slow down, the breath that brings us back to ourselves.

We learn and grow through the experiences that shape us, the challenges that ask us to stay present, and the moments of calm we choose to return to again and again. These threads weave together into a kind of everyday wisdom — reminding us that life, body, spirit, and place are not separate.

Everything is connected. And when we pay attention to what nourishes us, we find our way back to wholeness.

*

January 1, 2026. Madrid, NM.

In progress, watercolor.

Madrid, NM.

In progress, watercolor.

Turquoise Trail National Scenic Byway.

Turquoise Trail National Scenic Byway.

**

I am whole,

rooted in the very ground I seek.

I am the thread of connection

I have been longing to feel.

May this belonging stretch outward —

to every living being.

May we rest in deep peace,

see and feel the light within,

letting it move through us,

Out and into the world.

**

Lia and Violet, resting together.

*

In Love and Light as we walk into 2026, ready.

-Char

All art and writing ©️ Charlene Lutz 2026

This past week has been one of rest, reflection — and the joy of finishing an accordion-fold book. As I worked, I kept circling around this question: Where in my life is something quietly gestating, asking for patience rather than pushing? And what would it look like to protect that space this winter?

Those questions became a kind of journal prompt and a guide for the process — an invitation into more intuitive, surrendered painting, allowing the images to arrive rather than forcing them.

I pieced the book together from scraps of book board, layered watercolor paper over the top, and sealed it with archival glue. The “windows” are little cutouts revealing layers of linoleum and gelli plate prints beneath, with watercolor birds collaged on top.

Each panel feels distinct, yet the fold gives the whole piece a beautiful sense of movement. I’ve been playing with some new Daniel Smith watercolors that have a soft, iridescent shimmer, along with Saunders Waterford paper. I usually work on Arches or Fabriano cold press, but this change has been refreshing — and I highly recommend both. They pair especially well with M. Graham’s honey-based watercolors.

Now, as winter begins and the days draw inward, I’m grateful for these quiet moments of making — little windows of brightness stitched into the season. May this turning toward January bring you time to create, to listen, and to follow what wants to unfold. Wishing you a tender beginning to the new year, filled with warmth, curiosity, and sparks of inspiration.

In love, light and creativity,

~Char

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As this season wraps us in quiet light, I wanted to send a small note of thanks for being here and supporting my work. Whether today is a holiday for you or simply another winter day, I hope there’s a moment of calm, creativity, and beauty tucked inside it.

Because this tutorial was so loved the first time, I’m sharing it again as a little gift — an invitation to slow down, paint, and wander into a peaceful winter world together.

***

Quick tip: Sketch your rabbits and trees first…we dive right into the watercolor painting in the tutorial.

Winter holds a quiet kind of magic: the hush of freshly fallen snow, the way light bounces off the frozen ground, and the small signs of life that remind us that even in stillness, there is movement. In this tutorial, we’ll paint two rabbits nestled in a snowy landscape, using soft washes and gentle details to bring warmth to the cold.

This piece is about contrast between vast, open space and small, vital creatures. Between loose, flowing watercolor and the precise, delicate marks that define form. Between the stillness of winter and the quiet energy of the rabbits within it.

Supplies

Watercolor paper (cold press for texture)/hot press for a smoother feel

Watercolor paints (blues, warm browns, yellows, and greens)

Assorted brushes (small for details, medium for washes)

A fine liner brush or small detail brush

A pencil (for light sketching)

A clean water jar and paper towel

Step 1: The Winter Sky & Background

Begin with a wet-on-wet wash for the sky, using a mix of soft blues and grays. Let the colors blend naturally to create an atmospheric, moody winter sky. As the paint moves, drop in hints of deeper blue to suggest distant clouds or mist.

Once the sky is dry, add a distant tree line using a mix of deep green and brown. Keep it loose and slightly blurred, this will create a sense of depth.

Step 2: Defining the Snowy Landscape

Using a pale wash of warm ochres and cool grays, define the snowy ground. Keep some areas of the paper untouched to represent bright snow. Add a winding path or a subtle hint of uneven terrain by layering in soft shadows with diluted paint.

Step 3: Painting the Trees

Using a mix of brown and deep blue, paint the foreground trees with bold, gestural strokes. Let the branches extend upward and outward, keeping the forms slightly irregular for a natural look. While the paint is still damp, soften some edges with a clean, damp brush to create a sense of depth.

Step 4: Adding the Rabbits

Sketch the basic shapes of the rabbits lightly with a pencil. Use warm browns and soft grays to paint their fur, leaving small highlights where the light touches them. Keep their features simple just a hint of eyes, ears, and whiskers. A fine liner brush can help with delicate details like fur texture and small shadows under their bodies.

Step 5: Final Details & Shadows

Add soft shadows beneath the rabbits and trees using a diluted blue-gray mix. This will ground them in the snowy landscape. Adjust any highlights or deepen any shadows where needed. Step back and assess the overall balance of the painting…sometimes the most important final step is knowing when to stop!

*I kept going on my painting for a bit after the tutorial ended. This gave my paper time to dry and me time to settle with fresh eyes. Adding more to the trees in the middle ground area with branches helped me to feel my painting was complete.

Journal Prompts for Reflection

1. Winters Quiet Presence: How do you experience stillness in your own life? What does winter teach you about slowing down?

2. Small but Resilient: Rabbits may be small, but they are strong and adaptable. What is something in your life that feels small but holds great importance?

3. Traces in the Snow: In winter, footprints and trails tell the story of unseen movement. If you could leave an invisible path behind you, what would it say about where you’ve been and where you’re going?

Final Thoughts

This painting is an exploration of contrasts-light and shadow, movement and stillness, warmth and cold. It invites you to observe not only the landscape before you but the quiet world within yourself.

I’d love to hear how this painting resonates with you. Share your reflections, your artwork, or your own winter stories in the comments.

Sending so much creativity!

Char XXX