• The Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre.

  

• Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera wed

  

• Hawaii became the 50th state.

  

Sister Jean Dolores Schmidt was born — American chaplain for the Loyola University Chicago basketball team, and noted superfan. (Cool!)

Stumped? They all happened same day in history! You know what else happened on that day?

One year ago, I pushed PUBLISH... a bit gingerly, on my first Substack post!

Why do we celebrate anniversaries anyway?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Time moves forward whether we do or not — physically, emotionally, spiritually, or otherwise. For me, documenting my days has been a way of sinking in deeper, of witnessing the world as it is in that very moment.

So, how have I done over the past year with my current journaling-esque project here on Substack?

Let’s take a look at some rough highlights:

* 118 subscribers (2 paid... score!)

* My tagline (edited a few times through the year):

Artist-in-Residence of the world, delivering weekly-ish inbox goodness. Artist + adventurer currently wandering the Western United States with her sketchbook.

* 10 posts spanning the themes of train travel, thru-hiking shoes, and urban sketching in Mexico, Washington state, and Germany.

Did I hit my mark? Well... kind of. Here’s my first post, from August 20th, 2025, stating my intention for this newsletter:

“Welcome to The Ladybug Chronicles! Here you’ll find a hodgepodge of observations, musings, and sketches from this wild, wonderful world. My intention is to share my creative journey, and offer some creative medicine that inspires others on their paths.”

Does my “why” still feel authentic and heart-centered? Here’s where I started:

“The Ladybug Chronicles are inspired in part by my time on the Pacific Crest Trail, hiking under the trail name Ladybug. Fellow hiker Maurice gave it to me after noting I was like that kid on the playground, intently staring down at a bug on the ground when I was supposed to be paying attention to the soccer game going on around me. Seemed about right.

My mom also used to call me Ladybug.”

I went on to offer a teaser of future themes I’d explore:

“Read more on the fascinating backstory of thru-hike trail names in future chronicles.”

That’s the one where I fell short. I wrote a few solid posts, but I didn’t follow through on many of my bright ideas.

Why?

I’ve settled on the same reason I believe many of us stop short of creating something new in our lives:

I’m in an amazing creators’ cohort right now, and it’s really held a mirror up to me. Joining meant stepping out a bit and sharing more with the world — among a supportive group of creators who want to do the same, with a coach who aligns well with my deepest values.

This was my shot.

Like buying the plane ticket first, or saying yes when you know there’s no out — when I signed up for this container, it meant not keeping the things in my head as just “Missy’s Secret Projects” anymore, but actually bringing them into the world, in hopes of inspiring or bringing joy to whoever connects with them.

And quickly, I learned that for those deepest desires to create to come to life, I had to let go a little. Loosen the grip. Roll the window down and let my hair go wild. Step into the unknown — especially into the unknown.

I’m reminded of a saying carved into the entryway floor of a Vermont theatre, where I once attended a talk for my graduate school program:

That sat with me, and it came back to me during another time of transition in my life — around the time of my very first Instagram post, which marked the moment I started a more dedicated sketch practice.

But back to reflecting on this past year: it was one of huge growth and connection. I feel like my flame got lit back up. I pursued opportunities that scared me, met and learned from some of my heroes (more on that VERY soon), and I feel excited for this next chapter.

It was a win, overall. And you know what?

I’d like to re-introduce you to The Ladybug Chronicles.

I’m so glad you’re here.

Looking back over this first year — what’s a moment, big or small, that you’re glad got documented, whether by you or someone else?

Please share — reply to this email and I’ll write back. I read and respond to every one!

Alright, onto life updates:

🫶🏻 Who’s in my life… Pancho! A super snuggly furry friend who I am lucky enough to spend the next two weeks with. He has a touch of angel in him, with orange angel wing-like patterns on his back.

👂🏻 What I’m listening to… Under Pressure, Bowie & Queen (2011 Remastered)

📖 What I’m reading… Portrait of an Artist: A Biography of Georgia O’Keeffe.

🫜 What I’m eating… Trader Joe’s Strawberry & Jalapeño Crisps

🎨 What I’m creating… My first zine! More on that to come.

Next week: I will give a big project announcement that has been forming behind the curtain for some time now. Stay tuned!

As always, whether you’re on a bumpy path or a smooth one…

JUST. KEEP. GOING.

Cheers,

Wow! I did it!

The month flew by (as I knew it would!) and here I am on the other side of my very first artist residency.

I am so very lucky for the time to dive deeper into this magical space and the healing power of nature. I’m also deeply grateful for the stellar staff and community at my host organization, Aspen Center for Environmental Studies, and all the friends and family who have supported me along the way. And to the London Writer’s Salon community, who shared space with me during their virtual Writer’s Hour — where I crafted my application, my bio, my artist’s statement, and many pages of morning pages following Julia Cameron’s model — thank you.

The Catto Center at Toklat, which sits 11 miles up Castle Creek Valley, in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, reopened in December 2024 after a three-year, extensive renovation — and I had the honor of being only the second wilderness resident since its reopening.

So much gratitude for the time and space!

I have learned so much about my creative practice and what keeps me inspired.

It’s fascinating to be in a new space and observe how those conditions can either help or hinder the kind of work I do — both there and going forward on my creative path.

Last winter, I took a wildly inspiring course with friend and sketcher Rita Sabler, focusing on Visual Storytelling. I was pretty excited to bring that storytelling into my sketchbook pages during my time here. I’ll share more about that in the future, but for now I wanted to share a few insights and snapshots of springtime and Toklat happenings.

And there was lots happening at Toklat!

My project for the residency was to fill a sketchbook while engaging deeply with the surrounding wilderness, the community, and the sweet souls who live and work there — including the ACES naturalists on site. The thread running through all of it was deep awareness and the healing properties of nature: how slowing down and truly paying attention can restore something in us.

That practice took on a life of its own in ways I didn’t fully anticipate.

Toward the end of the month, I gave a talk — What Toklat Taught Me: A 25-Year Journaling Practice — and led a mini workshop for the naturalists and educators at ACES’ other site, Rock Bottom Ranch — which was one of the highlights of the whole experience. I also got to dig into the culinary traditions here at Toklat, another kind of storytelling entirely — more on that soon.

Cabin with a View

What a gorgeous window view!

My residency cabin — the Jessica Cabin — provided a cozy one-room space equipped with the basics: a day bed, kitchenette, bathroom, and simple desk. This setup was perfect for me, as I love simplicity in my physical space. The desk had an amazing view of the Upper Castle Creek Valley, and I loved watching the morning slowly illuminate the landscape as the day unfolded.

And there, visible right from the front porch, was my old 1880s miner’s cabin — mostly unchanged after 25 years. A quiet reminder of how far a path can wind, and how strangely it circles back.

One thing that emerged for me was the idea of the interface of private and public space.

In my mind, this really paralleled the duality we all face — our private inner landscape alongside the nourishment and connection we seek (and need!) from the outer world. Toklat, a wilderness lodge that has been open as both a public gathering space and a family home since the late 1940s, was just a short walk down a dirt path. That interplay of intimate and shared space felt like its own quiet teacher.

The Mace family first built on this piece of land in 1948, with the long-term intention that the land be used to promote the appreciation and study of the natural world and our relationship to it. Walking the surrounding paths and trails every day, I felt that intention still very much alive here. Getting to experience all of that alongside many familiar faces, including Trevor Washko — a dear friend of 25 years who has stewarded this land for nearly 30 years— made it really special.

The joyful arrival of spring was also a highlight of my time there.

New birds began arriving just as I did, and the bare aspen trees slowly began budding out near the end of my stay. Birdwatching was easier with the bare, chalk-colored tree trunks.

The month felt short, as I knew it would, and I left wishing for more time. I find myself reflecting on how we each interact with nature — whether we have the luxury of living with it in wild stretches right outside our door, or whether we’re watching birds from the window of a city high-rise.

Nature is everywhere, and we are not separate from it. We are it.

There’s something meaningful about making work in a place that has held artists, naturalists, thinkers, and wanderers for 75 years. Stuart Mace, one of ACES’ founders who shaped the original physical structure and spirit of Toklat, believed we can’t enjoy wild places without participating in them and protecting them.

Nature’s voice is often quiet. We can help.

I’ve been reflecting on that ever since I came down the mountain.

Now that I'm in town — and still very much surrounded by nature for the next week and a half — I notice my senses have been heightened. I’m always looking around in wonder. What birds are in the trees and sky? What new leaves or flowers are emerging with the onset of spring?

I hope to hold onto this awareness and keep documenting it in my sketchbook.

My challenge to you: do the same.

No matter where you are, what tiny miracles and moments of awe are you seeing in your world today?

Please share — reply to this email and I’ll write back. I read and respond to every one!

I’m glad you’re here.

As always, whether you’re on a bumpy path or a smooth one…

JUST. KEEP. GOING.

Cheers,

Next week:

Who’s in my life… Beau! I’m now in town petsitting a sweet King Charles Cavalier. He is the best snuggler!

👂🏻 What I’m listening to… The Toklat Wilderness playlist I created — featuring picks from folks who attended my end-of-residency artist talk. Find it on Spotify HERE.

📖 What I’m reading… Heartwood: The Wisdom and Healing Kinship of Trees by Dr. Lindsay Branham — about the healing power of nature.

🫜 What I’m eating… Greek Lentil Soup. Keeping it simple while I’m working on a new project — my grandma’s recipe taken from Laurel’s Kitchen Cookbook.

🎨 What I’m creating… Working through my first illustration project, which focuses on… you guessed it! Nature. More to come on that.

A Winding Path

Have you ever looked back at your life and traced the steps on that path that got you exactly where you are today?

They might be clear and careful steps, but I am guessing it’s more a chain of confident steps, missteps, steps-never-taken, and everything in between. Often the steps we took that didn’t make sense at the time, or in the moment seemed like roadblocks are where the gems are in our story. What makes us is often not so easy to put into a linear path.

I have been given the gift to retrace my own steps this month, as the Wilderness Artist-in-Residence with ACES (Aspen Center for Environmental Studies) at the Catto Center at Toklat, a place I first came to almost 25 years ago. That first summer would greatly influence the person I have become, and curiously all my steps have led me back to this special place.

Toklat.

The magic of Saying “YES!”

My own path led me right straight to 9,521 feet (2,902 m) without electricity, running water, or a proper bathroom for the best summer of my life in the Rocky Mountains. I accepted an internship in Colorado as an archives intern with the Aspen Historical Society. But there was one catch. That catch would turn out to be the best zigzag that could be put in my path.

Colorado mountain towns are notorious for being jaw-dropping expensive and my soon-to-be supervisor warned me that securing housing could be difficult, BUT there was another option if I was interested.

A miner’s cabin, set at the top of the Castle Creek Valley, across from a Wilderness Lodge and Gallery known as Toklat. The one-room log cabin was one of a handful of structures time had left behind in the ghost town of Ashcroft, which I would be leading tours of as an archives intern anyway. The concept of where my new digs would be located was wild, but it was an adventure and I was all in.

That simple yes changed my course.

The Mountains Were Calling and I Answered

After my dear mom nudged me to call the Forest Service headquarters in town, the ranger told me it was God’s Country, a saying that implies it was pretty close to heaven. And it was.

I filled the pages of that journal until my very last night. There are still wildflowers pressed flat in the back cover. Something special happened that summer. I learned to observe my world carefully, documenting it in my pages. All the while, eating from a can or cooler, using an outhouse behind the cabin, showering at the Forest Service bunkhouse down in town, and tending a fire in the wood stove. To put it simply, it was the best summer of my life, and it would shape the person I would become.

That summer taught me so much. I cultivated a love of wild places, deep conversations around a campfire, and the satisfaction of working with a team you love to create a memorable evening. I practiced the art of stargazing looking up at incredibly inky black night skies, and learned to pronounce quinoa long before it was mainstream. I came to appreciate heirloom family recipes passed down, and recognized the superior flavor a homemade salad dressing delivers over an over processed store-bought one. I got over some of my shyness and embraced public speaking while leading countless tours of the ghost town I called home. I made lifelong friendships that show me the power of showing up year after year.

The Seasons, They Go Round and Round

Fast forward 25 years, and I find myself here again in a different season of my life. Many things have changed, but so much is the same. The mountains still rise majestically on the horizon, the aspen trees still go through their seasonal cycle of shedding and renewal, and the birds and other wildlife are doing their seasonal sync with the vibrant onset of spring. My sweet miner’s cabin, now visible through the front window of my residency cabin, is mostly unchanged.

And then there is me. How have I changed through the years?

No longer a newbie, I find myself swapping stories of the good old days. I recognize how precious this life is, and my attention has sharpened. Although I still keep a written journal in my go-to leather cover refillable journal handmade and gifted to me by my dear friend Trevor Washko of Cold Mountain Craft years ago, following Julia Cameron’s method of Morning Pages (highly recommend!), my practice has split into a visual journaling practice as well.

At some point around 15 or so years ago, this visual element began with small doodles and simple nature sketches added in the margins of my journal. Slowly they grew. Finally, I made the jump to add another journal, devoted entirely to visual journaling when I bought my first watercolor Moleskin journal in the Mexico City airport before a backpacking trip through Central America.

This sketchbook exploration quickly hooked me, and I have been filling journals ever since.

The evolving creative practice

Filling journals has evolved over the years, but has become my core creative practice. Some say they are not a writer or can’t draw, but I think creativity is something any human innately has inside. Julia Cameron argues that there is no such thing as a non-creative person, and I tend to agree. Although I loved to draw as a kid, I gave it up like most adults I think. My creativity really blossomed with my journal practice. When I was looking into the residency I am currently in, I had an ah-ha moment.

This stuff was powerful and so simple. I want to share it.

Here, at Toklat once more, I am lucky enough to reflect back while looking forward. This has been such a rich and nourishing practice for me. Part of my residency includes a public talk where I will share more on this next Sunday entitled What Toklat Taught Me: A 25-Year Journaling Practice. If you are local, I’d love to see you, and more details are on the ACES website.

The Path Ahead

There is a reason I say “journaling practice”. It’s something I have cultivated and made a habit over many years. A joyful part of my days, I realize it’s as important or maybe more so than other parts of my day. I always close my journal, whether it’s my leather-bound refillable journal or my sketchbook, and feel a bit lighter and energized. A thought has been swirling in my head lately, especially in these days of deep reflection.

Is the creative process more healing and connective than we give it credit for?

For me, journaling has been incredibly healing and nourishing. It is my creative spirit being fed. It took me a while to realize it, but both my written and drawn journals are my creativity expressed.

So here is my challenge to you. Consider the question below question. If you are stumped and, sit with it for a while.

There is an answer there, I promise.

How are you creative?

Post your reply below and I will send you a free sticker around first of the month and a surprise. Gift it or keep it for yourself.

I have a few new projects in the works that I am excited to share in the coming days. Have a topic that is interesting to you or you would like me to delve deeper into?

Reply below as well. I read and respond to every message.

Thanks for being here! I appreciate you.

**JUST. KEEP. GOING.**

In gratitude,

---

Next week: Delve into the craft and culinary traditions here at Toklat.

Who’s in my life…the Toklat Crew! This wilderness retreat is staffed and cared for by some stellar individuals.

👂🏻 What I’m listening to… My Migrations Playlist I created. Find it on Spotify HERE

📖 What I’m reading…Terry Tempest Williams’ newest book The Glorians.

🫜 What I’m eating…My current breakfast go-to is roasted veggies and garlic lemon yogurt sauce

🎨 What I’m creating…Filling a sketchbook dedicated to my month here, currently focusing on the culinary traditions of Toklat.

Last month, I had the great luck to witness one of nature’s greatest shows — the spring migration of nearly a million sandhill cranes to the Platte River Valley in Nebraska.

The early morning hours opened with silence and darkness. The horizon slowly warmed from inky black to pale pink and orange. Then the sound arrived before the birds did — a collective, rising sound that reached our enclosed bird-watching blind before the first crane lifted off the sandbars scattered across the river. Powerful wings caught air, legs dangled and trailed behind, and one by one, thousands of birds rose into the sky like the sun itself.

What happened next literally took my breath away.

As their numbers grew and the volume of their calls crescendoed, something magnetic radiated through my body — first a tingle on my skin, then a sharpening of every sense. Eyes wide. Body poised. I blinked back hot tears that appeared out of nowhere.

Then, finally, an audible sigh escaped me. I was being called to bear witness.

The mass of birds lifted in huge waves, some collective tipping point telling every crane: we gotta go. And I was there to see it. Connected to it.

One word surfaced, and my whole body already knew it.

Awe.

I’ve had a thing for birds for quite some time, and there’s a back story to how I ended up on the banks of the Platte River that weekend.

My favorite great-aunt Roberta’s married name was Bird. Our Northwoods cabin in Eastern Oregon is fittingly called “the Bird House,” complete with a cool hand-painted 1970s sign. Herons — similarly tall, graceful, elegant — were the first bird I really learned. This made sandhill cranes feel somehow familiar to me, even before I ever saw one.

The first sandhill crane I actually saw wasn’t in Nebraska. It was in the Johnson Meadow — the grassy open land my great-great-grandfather first homesteaded, a place I’d been visiting since I was six months old. The cranes appeared one summer in the meadow in front of the A-frame cabin my grandpa and great-uncle built in the ‘70s. My mom heard the call first, then quietly pointed out the figures standing in the grass. I didn’t know then how much that moment would mean later.

I saw them again at the Othello Sandhill Crane Festival in central Washington state. After a particularly hard winter — many months spent mostly alone — I threw my gear in my Honda Element and just went. Spring was arriving, and I was slowly rejoining the world alongside it.

I woke early, heard the cranes before I saw them, watched them lift into the sky. The next day, I drove straight to my mom’s house to show her the video. Her eyes were glued to the screen. The witnessing had been incredible, but the sharing made it real — moving from the individual experience into something collective.

That hard winter was followed by an even harder spring, though I didn’t know it yet. My mom was hospitalized, then moved to a rehabilitation center, and never came home. She left us just as the lilacs were in full bloom and the cranes were making their journey north.

Cycles of nature, turning. My mom was closing her own those spring days.

I was learning, slowly, that witnessing sorrow and loss is not the same as being consumed by it.

A year later, I was on a road trip from Washington state to my mom’s home state of Oklahoma, tying up loose ends of her estate. Heading back home north through first Kansas and then the Nebraska flatlands in the early morning hours, I started seeing signs for cranes — and realized I had unknowingly stumbled into the outskirts of Kearney, Nebraska, just as the Sandhill Crane migration was coming through. That moment planted a seed.

A few years later, when I learned that John Muir Laws was leading a Sandhill Crane Migration Celebration and nature journaling workshop with guest Amy Tan — and that I would already be headed to Colorado for a Wilderness Artist Residency — it fit into my travel schedule perfectly. I clicked the register button, expecting it to be rejected and sold out.

After a few seconds, a confirmation popped up. I was in!

The flight path of the crane migration was aligning with my own.

Magic, once more.

John Muir Laws — known as “Jack” — puts it this way: “A useful way to define love is sustained, compassionate attention.”

Jack is an extraordinary educator and nature journaler, and his presence is nothing less than infectious. This past year has been one of the richest learning years of my life, and I’ve been lucky to study with teachers like him — people who pour their whole hearts into their practice and are generous enough to share it.

The Sandhill Crane Migration Celebration was a perfect example. I spent four days journaling alongside a wonderful small workshop group with Jack at the lead. He invites students to honor nature through deep observation and what he calls “pencil miles” — the ongoing, relentless practice of showing up on the page. I love that!

And pencil miles we made. The wonder of the cranes and the energy of the community fueled my pages in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I had seen footage of wildlife photographer Thomas Mangelsen and Jane Goodall watching the cranes together on the banks of the Platte — sipping whisky, his beloved dog Junior happily positioned between the two of them. This was the first migration season since Jane’s passing on October 1st of last year, after so many years of witnessing the cranes together, and Thomas honored her absence beautifully in a piece called Six Lessons I Learned from Jane Goodall. Such an inspiration and wise teacher to many.

Three remarkable teachers. One with wings.

Deep attention. Pencil miles. Awe.

Jane Goodall spent a lifetime watching — chimpanzees, forests, a world in chaos (sound familiar?) — and never looked away. Jack Laws turns that same quality of attention toward every bird, every tree, every student in front of him. The cranes return, year after year, to the same river and flyway, witnessing the same miracle of their own making. And my mom, in her final season, was witnessed by lilacs in the lilac city that she loved and migrating birds and a daughter who was finally learning how to be fully present.

The lesson wove itself through all of these moments, slowly, until I couldn’t miss it anymore. Again, when the student is ready, the teacher appears. And they come in many forms — some have wings.

The beautiful parts and the brutal parts. To look directly at all of it — not to be crushed, but to be changed. To let the page, or the blind on the riverbank, or the quiet of early morning hold us while we do.

That is what visual journaling is for me. Not documentation. Witnessing.

Always a curious and observant soul, I find myself completely head over heels for the sandhill cranes. Jack Laws said it well: “Love is sustained attention.” In a world trying to steal every ounce of it we have, I’m making a vow to the natural world. To have and to hold it. To pay attention, all the days of my life.

The cranes remind me of this. They carry a deep remembering — of how to show up, how to return, how to move through this magical seasonal journey that we humans are lucky enough to witness.

A parting thought from the brilliant Mary Oliver. As Jack suggests, read it once, then read it again:

You can read the full poem here — The Summer Day.

Whether life feels as though it is crushing you or elevating you high in the sky, always remember:

JUST. KEEP. GOING.

Next week: The view from Toklat — what a wilderness residency actually looks like, and what I’m learning in week one.

I’m writing to you from the Catto Center at Toklat, in the Castle Creek Valley above Aspen, Colorado, as part of the Wilderness Artist Residency with the Aspen Center for Environmental Studies.

This residency is about exactly what the cranes taught me on at the Northwoods on Johnson Meadow of Eastern Oregon and on the Platte: showing up. Paying attention. Bearing witness to the world — its wildness, its beauty, its heartbreak — and finding a way to explore ahold all of it on the page.

Visual journaling as a way of digesting a life fully lived. My dear teacher Maggie Evans first connected me with that word for what I was going through. Digesting.

Aren’t we all? Each moment.

I’ve been here one week. I already feel different. Next Sunday, I’ll tell you more about what that looks like — and what I’m discovering.

Next week: The view from Toklat — what a wilderness residency actually looks like, and what I’m learning in week one.

What’s in my world right now:

🦢 Who’s in my life — Sandhill cranes. I spent time alongside these magical creatures at the Platte River and I can’t shake the feeling that they are one of nature’s great masters.

👂 What I’m listening to — “Follow the Sun” by Xavier Rudd

📖 What I’m reading — Amy Tan’s The Backyard Bird Chronicles

🥘 What I’m eating — A PCT trail food throwback: Chicken Parmesan Couscous, adapted from Backcountry Foodie (an incredible resource — and where I got most of my trail recipes)

🎨 What I’m creating — Finishing a nature journal from my time in Kearney, Nebraska, sketching alongside John Muir Laws and the cranes. I am also beginning to fill my first pages for my residency.

Eight.

That’s exactly how many pairs of Altra Lone Peak shoes it has taken me to get where I am today. Lots of research went into choosing just the perfect shoe. Once that decision was made? The weight of decision fatigue just melted away and I just began.

It was about this time of three years ago that I was quietly training to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. I had made the decision around the first of the new year, and somehow the training seemed incredibly logical to me: just start walking, every day, in all conditions, no matter what.

Once you do that, get up the next day and do it again. So that’s what I did.

That first pair of Altras got me through my training, mostly walking the Centennial Trail along the Spokane River. Once my start date inched closer, I ordered a fresh new pair. Shiny shoes on my feet, I boarded a plane southbound to San Diego, with the intention of hiking the full length of the west coast of the US, arriving back in my home state of Washington before the snow fell.

This week, I find myself on my own migration of sorts once more. Taking the same path, headed north from central Mexico, through San Diego, up the West Coast of the US. A friend asked me the night I arrived, “are you ready to put down roots?” Questions like these nowadays often get me tripped up, as I feel a bit in two different worlds. Rooted firmly in both, but feeling called deeply to keep moving. North to south, south to north.

So that is just what I have been doing.

Movement is a powerful force, and something we increasingly resist.

When I made the decision to hike the 2650 miles of the PCT, I had a head-spinning year of change in my life, paralyzing me. Loss and grief do that to you. So I decided that I’d just put one foot in front of the other. Keep moving.

Fast forward a few years, I miraculously completed the entire PCT.

Life fell back into a more normal pace, but the comforting practice of walking stayed with me. Everything seems to work itself out when I walk. I adore the slowness of it. The world demands so much, demands so many answers, while walking demands little. You just show up. The other pieces will come to you in good time.

Problems or situations lay on the surface of my thinking brain, but don’t get worked out often until I move my body. I think this might be a nugget of advice for us all. Maybe we all can use walking to work some things out.

Many things live in our bodies.

It’s no coincidence that we say “work through it”. Walking provides me this luxury. To just be and observe slowly. Ideas, solutions, song lyrics, sometimes tears…the movement jars something loose inside of me that allows these things to come out naturally.

Walking is the tonic to life’s ups and downs I didn’t know I was needing.

I’m on my eighth pair of Altras now. Still heading out the door. Still walking. Still letting the gentle movement of one foot in front of the other help me work out what my thinking brain alone can’t solve. South to north, north to south. Turns out I don’t need to choose between the two just yet. I just need to keep on the path, and just keep going.

This weekend: Nebraska. I’ll witness hundreds of thousands of Sandhill Cranes gathering on the Platte River, learning from nature journal artist John Muir Laws. Another migration, another kind of showing up.

In two weeks: Colorado. I return to Toklat, where I worked as an intern 25 years ago living in an 1880’s miner’s cabin at 9,500 feet. A month-long wilderness residency with Aspen Center for Environmental Studies walking and sketching in the mountains, working in Isabel Mace’s preserved kitchen where she pioneered sustainable mountain living decades before anyone called it that.

Between now and then: 100 days of Place: Wild western landscapes documented at walking speed. Wetlands, plains, mountains. Daily practice. Daily showing up.

Every day in between. Paying attention at walking speed in a hyper-speed world.

I’m happy you are along with me on this journey, and please reply to this email if you’re feeling it—I read and respond to every one.

And as always, remember…

**JUST. KEEP. GOING.**

In gratitude,

---

🫶🏻 Who’s in my life…dear friends and family here in the Inland Northwest. It’s good to have this time to visit!

👂🏻 What I’m listening to…Fleet Foxes - White Winter Hymnal on Youtube. The video is so fun!

📖 What I’m reading…On the Wild Edge of Sorrow, a fantastic book on grief work that I first read soon after my mom died. Definitely worth the second read!

🫜 What I’m eating….Baked Salmon! I try to only eat fish when I am near source, and my sister made deliciously simple fillets - lemon, garlic, and parmesan.

🎨 What I’m creating…Day 12 of my 100 Days of Place: Wild West Project

Author and artist Amy Stewart has championed the idea of the Self-Appointed Artist-in-Residence, and it reminds me of what many of us did during COVID.

COVID was an uncanny, somewhat strangely magical time in a horrific way. It forced us to slow down and make our world smaller. I saw more people walking dogs, smiling at strangers from a safe distance, generally paying more attention.

I was working at Second Harvest Northwest in the nutrition education department, addressing food insecurity. Our hands-on cooking classes and education efforts out in the community came to a screeching halt, but many parts of my home life went unchanged. I secretly loved the slowing down, but worried deeply about the effects of isolation on people around me.

My solution was getting curious. I picked up birding through an online course offered by the Wild Wonder Foundation, led by OG nature journal educator John Muir Laws, who generously stepped up to offer communities a way to engage with the natural world when everyone was stuck at home.

Enter birds. The perfect subject for deep observation — and just outside everyone’s window!

I filled sketchbooks from those classes, learning to know a bird by its physical form and behavior. Then I started a micro-project drawing birds on watercolor postcards and hanging them on my studio wall.

Quick watercolors, portable format. I loved it.

Those cards still sit in a stack and bring that whole time rushing back instantly. They were the seed of exactly what I’m doing now.

Faced with fresh uncertainty in the world, I’m getting curious once more. I’m exploring the wildness of the American West through landscapes, creatures, and seasonal change in a project I’m calling 100 Days of Place: Wild West. Seven days in, I’m deep in wetlands — and I have a dream-come-true announcement.

.

Later this month I’m heading south to Nebraska to sketch the sandhill crane migration with Laws himself. Eek!

Want your own project? Do it. Who is stopping you?

My bird project worked because it was something I genuinely loved, accessible, and low commitment. That’s really all you need.

Amy Stewart wrote a fantastic post on her Substack — “Be the Artist-in-Residence of Your World — No application needed, just appoint yourself.” I return to it again and again. Her readers have claimed their own residencies at farmers markets, in their own neighborhoods, or her own recently on a hotel balcony in Puerto Rico. The sky really is the limit.

People resonate with Stewart’s idea because we are naturally curious creatures, deeply connected to our world. But to choose yourself in a project, you first have to trust yourself. Then you have to give yourself permission — which is trickier than it sounds for adults who still half-expect a hall monitor to appear and say no.

You know what I say? Who is the boss here? YOU are the boss.

Many of us are carrying a heavy weight right now. The world feels uncertain and frightening in ways that are hard to sit with. The news arrives in firehose quantities, around the clock, and some of what it carries is genuinely devastating.

I’m not suggesting we look away. But I am suggesting we also look down — at the bird on the fence post, the beaver in the creek, the first green pushing through winter ground. Deep observation doesn’t diminish what’s happening in the world. It keeps us rooted enough to face it.

This is what author Annie Dillard understood when she spent a year watching one small creek in Virginia and wrote Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (I’m re-reading now - great read for the changing seasons!) — that paying fierce attention to the natural world isn’t a retreat from reality. It is a way of staying sane despite of it.

Spring is a time of change in the nature. It’s also the perfect time to expand as a person. Creativity reduces stress and makes us feel more connected. Seeking beauty right now isn’t frivolous — it’s essential.

When the world is heavy, go deeper. Slow down. Breathe.

Next week: A real-deal artist residency in the Colorado Rockies — a homecoming and a big part of my origin story. Stay tuned.

If you could design your own residency, what would you choose? Why haven’t you?

Reply to this email — I read and respond to every one.

I appreciate you. And always remember…

JUST. KEEP. GOING.

What I’m up to these days…

👥 Who’s in my life — Women! Happy International Women’s Day to every remarkable woman making the world better.

👂🏻 What I’m listening to — For the Birds compilation on Spotify

📖 What I’m reading — Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

🥣 What I’m eating — Greek yogurt, cacao nibs, and oats. Protein goals!

🎨 What I’m creating — Day 7 of 100 Days of Place: Wild West. Today a red-winged blackbird joins the wetlands collection.

**Note: This draft has sat unpublished in my Substack dashboard, and in light of the recent events across Mexico, now is a perfect time to share. Sending this EPIC Guadalajara USK Community all my love.

As a kid, I NEVER raised my hand in class.

I remember my heart racing and hands sweating, squirming uncomfortably in my chair as my turn to read aloud in our 1st grade class reading circle inched closer and closer.

Over the years, I found my voice through teaching, leading tours, and generally engaging with the world around me. At some point, I came across Danny Gregory’s book An Illustrated Journey in a bookstore in downtown Glenwood Springs, Colorado, and the sketchbook community. Boy oh boy, was that a rabbit hole!

I’m still tumbling down, and the flame only seems to grow.

Circles often expand, and lately I have stepped into a brand new one. Urban Sketching! I’ve watched from afar, and finally I jumped in. Like reading aloud as a kid, sketching in public was something I longed to do but dreaded. I was more of a sneaky artist, like fellow artist Nishant Jain, who started out going to cafes in his new city, sketching patrons from afar without them noticing. Drawing in nature, or in the comfort of my own space, has been my jam.

Last November, I was thrilled to be able to attend Viva Mexico, a weekend of urban sketching that celebrated the city of Guadalajara with lots of fun activities. Workshops, sketch crawls, and Drink-and-Draws - oh, my!

Héctor López - Master of Perspective AND Breakfast.Yep, breakfast.

Hector is a Mexico City based architect whose workshop focused on perspective, one of the most intimidating aspects of sketching for many. He simplified adding perspective lines and trees in a straightforward way. No more overthinking for this gal! He also has a deep appreciation for a good breakfast posted in his Instagram stories at _thearchitector, and I’m hoping to meet up in CDMX soon for some good eats.

Frank Fuentes- Master of Simplifying AND Beautifying the Mundane.

Based in Taxco, Mexico, Frank often uses a lovely muted color palette that I just fell in love with. He surprised me with his chosen sketch location for our workshop group. My first thought? UGH….boring and horribly ugly scene. He worked magic in reframing it that made me appreciate that truly any street scene is a worthy sketch subject.

John Pitblado - Master of Details AND Looking Up

John really encouraged our group to look up and around in all directions to pick out what catches our eye. We were given three postcards to fill with details of our location to tell a story. I loved seeing how different each sketcher’s take on it was.

The event kicked off with a “Drink and Draw” in the center of the city. It was my first time there, and only about 3 and a half hours by bus from Guanajuato, my adopted city for the past year.

I walked to the Los Famosos Equipales, and I don’t know if you have been past a real-deal Mexican cantina before, but it had the classic wooden swinging doors. Not too welcoming for a single gal in a new city. Admittedly, I did one lap around the block to get my courage up, and then placed my hand on the swinging door, and pushed.

That was the art of showing up — hand on the door, heart in your throat, going in anyway.

It was a whole new world!

It was abuzz with happy groups at large tables engaged in lively conversation. I spotted what I assumed was the urban sketching group (I knew NO ONE) and crossed the room. Quickly I found a seat at the table with unfamiliar faces who would soon become friends.

That is the magic of Urban Sketching groups. Always warm and welcoming.

This event was entirely new for me, but it was so energizing! The Sketch Rally sent us to five locations (puntos) around the center, each with its own challenge.At each punto, the challenge was simple: 54321…Go! Five minutes, continuous straight lines only, look up, or find someone in the market — whatever the prompt, just start.

It was a fun tour of the center, winding through the glorious markets, architecture wonders, and bustling streets of this stunning city.

It also was sooo much great practice in just putting pen to paper and sketching. At every stop I was able to use learnings from the workshops.

And that’s a wrap! Guadalajara, you are so loved.

Thanks for being here.

And remember, JUST. KEEP. GOING.

Who’s in my life…neighbors. Angie and the laundry across the street, Leo at the corner store, and others passing by on my callejon (small street in Spanish, usually pedestrian only). Who is in your everyday?

👂🏻 What I’m listening to…PCT Soundtrack, find it on Spotify HERE

📖 What I’m reading…Don Miguel Ruiz, La Maestría del Amor (in Spanish!)

🫜 What I’m eating…My current breakfast go-to is Spinach and Kale Scramble

🎨 What I’m creating…Day 3 of my 100 Days of Place: Wild West Project

P.S. I’m playing with adding “What I’m Into” to the ends of my posts (above). I always love the behind the scenes take of others who I admire who have done something similar, so I am curious if this resonates with anyone.

Thoughts?

Let me know!

“I believe the best way to begin reconnecting humanity’s heart, mind, and soul to nature is for us to share our individual stories.”
― J. Drew Lanham, The Home Place: Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair with Nature

Patagonia taught me what I was really searching for - and it wasn’t there.

I just spent two weeks at the edge of the world.

Patagonia is a magical landscape - jagged snow-capped peaks rising above glacier-blue mountain lakes, wild horses moving across grassy open spaces, light and clouds that dance and move in wild, unpredictable ways. The kind of place where you feel deeply alive and in awe of the earth’s beauty.

I came to fill my blank sketchbook pages and capture a sense of place in this new landscape. Using deep observation to see the unique color palette, landscape lines, and plants and animals that make Patagonia a place like no other.

And I did - pages and pages of horses, mountains, weathered estancias (large, private ranches in Patagonia), the quality light and clouds of these southern hemisphere skies.

But something unexpected happened while I was sketching these scenes.

I kept thinking about home.

Not the various places I’ve lived, but home home. What J. Drew Lanham, a Clemson professor known for being one of the few black ornithologists, calls “home place.” The place that pulls at something deep in me. The Inland Northwest - specifically the region where Oregon, Washington, and Idaho come together. And nope, it’s not Seattle or the other Washington…as in DC.

The Wallowa Mountains of Eastern Oregon where my family’s homestead and A-frame cabin built by my grandpa and great uncle sits.

The smell of dusty roads and tall golden grass.

The landscape my parents and grandparents first brought me and my sisters to when we were only a few months old and I have returned to my whole life.

Standing at the southern edge of the inhabited world, I realized:

I don’t need to travel to the ends of the earth to find sense of place. I need to go home and actually see it. Take it in deeply - smell it, touch it, listen to it, let it inspire me.

So that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Starting today, I’m beginning a 100-day daily practice documenting my own home place - the Inland Northwest of Washington State and the greater Western landscape.

Every day for 100 days, I’ll create at least one sketch highlighting the best of the west - observing the landscapes, seasons, creatures, and life of my home place.

Why 100 days?

The 100 Day Project is a global art movement (#The100DayProject) that challenges artists to pick a theme and create work around it each day for 100 days. Sounds easy? It’s challenging, but in a good way.

This year, I’m connecting the dots: my focus is sense of place.

Because sense of place isn’t built in two weeks of intense observation in an exotic location. It’s built through sustained attention to the ordinary, the seasonal, the overlooked. It’s built by showing up daily to the same landscape and learning to really see it.

Patagonia was jaw-droppingly beautiful. But it’s not mine. It belongs to the people who live there, know its moods and seasons, and are part of its ecosystem.

The Inland Northwest and the greater Western landscape? That’s mine to know deeply. And after chasing sense of place across the world, and most recently South America, I’m ready to come home and find it.

What to expect:

Over the next 100 days, I’ll be sharing:

• Notes on plants, animals, geology, and weather

• Daily sketches of the landscape

• Observations about seasonal changes

• Explorations of the people and culture of the region

• My process of learning to see what’s always been there

• Upcoming “drawing drop” featuring original sketches

I’ll post regularly here on Substack with weekly updates, and share on my Instagram account [@missysketches].

From South America to North America - one beautiful hemisphere, from majestic to familiar, from two weeks to 100 days.

Let’s see what happens when I finally stop searching and start paying attention.

The project starts today.

If you are here, I am grateful for you.

And remember, on your own path, wherever it leads you: JUST. KEEP. GOING.

Cheers,

A quick note depending on where you’re coming from:

If you subscribed to my old WordPress blog “Inspiration in Focus” - I’ve moved to Substack! You’re already subscribed here, no action needed. Thanks for sticking with me.

If you’ve been here on Substack already - Nothing’s changing, just wanted to say hi!

For everyone: I’m participating in the 100 Days Project again this year - creating each day for 100 days and sharing on Instagram. My focus will be sense of place, documenting the Wild Western US landscape with ink and watercolor sketches on 4 x 6 postcards.

First full update coming bright and early tomorrow!

Thanks for being here.

Cheers,

Would she have sported a frog, dinosaur, or woman-on-a-horse suit?

Or maybe a chimp costume, although she frequently confessed that dogs were actually her favorite animal, a blend of wild and domesticated that give us a link to the nature we often feel separate from. I can’t help but think she would have smiled at the creativity of the crowd and the peaceful atmosphere on NO KINGS Day.

Most likely, she would have worn something similar to what she wore most days.

Simple. Functional. Understated.

Dr. Jane Goodall was powerful in action and not necessarily in fashion.

We make hundreds of decisions everyday, and Jane chose to keep hers simple. How else could one maintain a 300+ day a year marathon schedule of speaking engagements?

She chose to put her energy into spreading a profound message of hope, staying in hotels and keeping a simple, structured life on the road.

She would travel with a tea kettle, and stick to a simple breakfast of coffee and toast with a smear of Marmite (a British vegan savory spread) packed from home. When not on tour, she went back to England to stay at her childhood home with her sister.

It was reported this week that Jane’s cause of death was cardiac arrest, dying in her sleep while on a speaking tour in California at age 91. She had maintained this intense schedule on the road for years.

YEARS! Incredible if you ask me.

Following her death on October 1st, tribute after tribute poured in from everywhere -world leaders, celebrities, community members, friends and students… all corners of the planet came out to honor this gentle giant. Days later, actress Diane Keaton also died at age 79. Both women were deeply admired and praised for their unique way of showing up in the world.

What made their lives in the days after their passing so captivating for the world community?

While Diane’s quirky fashion choices were easier to analyze and more obvious with bold bowler hats, vests, and glasses, it was harder to pin down a consistent thread in Jane’s style.

In the end, both made a statement about their values and what they did (and didn’t!) believe in.

I started to dig deeper.

I’m no fashion critic, but the power of fashion choice as a platform for social commentary has been used time and time again with public figures. Diane Keaton’s style expressed her value of women’s independence and freedom to live outside of societal norms.

Did Jane’s fashion choices express something as well?

Even at the ripe old age of 91, frail, forgetful, or cranky, Jane was not. She literally did not stop…until she abruptly did. While doing the work.

This profoundly impactful soul defied all notions about what it is to be an “old lady”.

Age, gender, profession, education...Jane took every barrier society placed in her path and calmly, but powerfully, walked right past it.

Let’s take a look back at her fashion choices.

Fashionista? Yes, please.

Jane arrived to the African continent in 1960 at age 26 with her mom, and quickly adorned a field tech wardrobe fitting of the jungle landscape chimp habitat of Gombe National Park in Zambia. A short-sleeved, brown top, paired with matching pants or shorts became her signature outfit. Blonde hair pulled back into a low ponytail with a classic side part, she opted for the the arguably most basic hairstyle.

She kept this look up for many years. Binoculars and often a notebook in hand.

Later, Jane ramped up her public engagements.

When she began traveling extensively with Roots and Shoots, a global youth organization she founded, her style shifted a bit.

The mission statement of the organization outlines a clear and powerful approach to further Jane’s vision for the world.

She also began wearing symbols of her work, like the Africa continent necklace seen in many images.

A stuffed primate toy holding a peeled banana, Mr. H was a symbol of her work, and her travel companion to over 65 countries beginning in 1996. In her early years, she focused on chimps and their habitat, but later branched out to conservation and animal-human interaction.

In her later years, she wore turtleneck sweaters, with beautifully patterned scarves draped around her shoulders. One of my favorites can be found in many photographs and also during her interview with The Tonight Show host Jimmy Fallon. The brilliant pattern of the migratory monarch butterfly was undoubtably her subtle message advocating for the protection of these stunning creatures and their native habitat.

Displaying incredible stamina and dedication to get her message of hope across, Jane sat down with Netflix to record a video interview to be released upon her death.

I think it is important to note she was forward thinking, acknowledging future generations as the inhabitants and stewards of the earth in the future.

Jane’s secret sauce?

Hope.

Jane Goodall was my first and life-long hero.

I remember seeing her first on the cover of National Geographic, pulled down from the bookshelf at my grandparent’s house. Sitting crossed legged on the shag carpet, I eagerly flipped through the glossy pages. I was amazed and inspired that she set her sights on traveling to Africa and made it happen.

As a young woman starting out, she truly carved her own path, and never strayed.

History is full of examples of heroes from all walks of life “making good trouble” as civil rights activist John Lewis said. The world needs more Jane Goodalls. She truly was one of a kind.

So, let’s set to do the work Jane outlined for us upon her death in her final message.

Don’t lose hope.

Don’t give up, even in these dark times.

Inspire children, who will inherit and become stewards of this world in time.

And remember, like Jane, when the world is facing many heavy things, put on your best. Whether that be a turtleneck, field work khakis or frog suit, and…

JUST. KEEP. GOING!

P.S. If you made it this far, nicely done! This is the fourth installment of The Ladybug Chronicles. Have thoughts or comments? I’d love to hear from you. And a big thanks for reading!

P.S.S. I am a fan of writer’s sharing a slice of what is buzzing around their world and influencing them. I’m taking this and running with it.

👤 Who’s in my life…

My sister and best friend! I’m so happy to bridge the miles between with a simple voice message, phone call, or text.

👂🏻 What I’m listening to…

Nature at Play: J.S. Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, by cellist Yo Yo Ma. This epic video is gorgeous to listen to AND watch.

📖 What I’m reading…

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, by Haruki Murakami. It’s a fascinating deep dive into how the Japanese writer’s mind works and how he keeps his creative fire stoked.

🫜 What I’m eating…

I’m leaning more and more towards a plant-based diet, and my all-time favorite is in rotation this week. Greek Lentil Soup, from the pages of my Grandma Erma’s copy of Laurel’s Kitchen.

🎨 What I’m creating…

Visual Journaling. I’m working on this newsletter that ideally blends my sketching with written word. It’s been a bit challenging, as I’m working in working with Canva, instead of Procreate, which I’ve used before.

Pretty minimalist, but I’m doing it!

I had already told my hiking partner Hummingbear (the best trail name ever!) to do just that. Keep walking. Don’t stop.

Don’t look back to check on me.

Don’t rattle off some casual comment about the stunning views. Views schmues.

Nada.

Zilch.

My goal? Just. Keep. Going.

My body was reacting strongly to a feature I had seen on the map, and I could feel my heart racing. The Kendall Katwalk. Just past where the Pacific Crest Trail crosses Interstate 90 at Snoqualmie Pass in the Washington section. We had successfully crossed the infamous Knife’s Edge in the Goat Rocks Wilderness just a few miles back, pathetically unaware of the intensity of navigating some of the most challenging terrain prior to stumbling upon it.

I was terrified, but we made it. A little shell shocked, I wasn’t super thrilled about another traverse that triggered that reaction again. The conclusion of the Katwalk story is pretty anti-climatic. My body was tense, my mind was hyper-focused, and so I did just as I told my best tramily member, Hummingbear, to do. I put one foot in front of the other and …

Just. Kept. Going.

After a few very careful steps, instinctually my body relaxed, the tension draining away. The width of the feared Katwalk was actually wide enough for a Subaru. My natural human instincts that screamed at heights that would scare the pants off any normal human being was deactivated quickly. False alarm. The fear was only in my head, and it wasn’t the horror I’d imagined in the vast house of mirrors of my mind.

This was one of the first lessons of many lessons learned during my 2024 PCT thru-hike. The secret sauce? Acknowledge these moments. Be brave. Step into the thick of it and ….that’s right.

Just. Keep. Going.

Here are five additional lessons I learned to be true during my five months hiking. Many apply to everyday life, whether you are a thru-hiker, or a world citizen trying to navigate this crazy modern world with all of its bells, whistles, and admittedly the current five-alarm-fire situation of the planet today.

Could I really do this...physically?

That was the question that kept popping into my head in the months leading up to my May start from the Mexican border near Campo, California. I wasn’t exactly the couch-to-trail kind of gal, but I’d never hiked the kind of miles the PCT would throw at me. The fascinating thing is, with every step, your body starts to fine-tune itself.

You become suddenly very aware of your inputs (ie. food, water, sunshine, air) and outputs (ie. energy, pee, poo, time). Being exposed to natural light all day, I quickly adjusted to waking with the sun and getting sleepy when it sunk below the horizon. I slept more hours and had the best sleep of my life. All the plumbing systems? I used the toilet upon waking like clockwork, and if I wasn’t peeing regularly, I wasn’t drinking near enough water.

At the start in the SoCal desert, I didn’t have much of an appetite, but my body soon alerted me to what it needed. My body craved more high calorie foods, and burned off quickly whatever fuel went in. Snickers, Fritos, Dr. Peppers, and cold-soaked Top Ramen? Yes, please.

Listening to my body, I became efficient without even trying.

My body was functioning at a high level, as I was giving it inputs that aren’t readily available to many. Fresh air, vigorous movement, natural sunlight, and a changing landscape that challenged the mind with each new day. I’m in awe of what the human body are capable of. Sadly, many people are facing environments that lack even the basics to survive. When every person and community has what is needed to function as a healthy system, everyone benefits.

To physically move about and explore the natural world for five months was a privilege not available to many around the world. It is a privilege to be active and I hope to keep moving until my last days. I heard this piece of advice many times from wise hikers on trail.

Move. Everyday. Don’t stop. Use your body. It’s the only one you’ve got.

Hiking through vast natural landscapes and exploring so many fascinating communities across three states, I realized quickly the diversity found along the trail. Fellow hikers from outside of the US took note of this as well. The gift of movement, both in body and in the freedom to cross political borders, should not be taken for granted. As I got closer to the Canadian border, the US presidential election also lurked heavily in the recesses of my mind. Two different borders, two totally different approaches.

On a long distance thru-hike, each day offers a unique opportunity to wake up and take on whatever unfolds in your path. Weather, seasons, lunar cycles, landscapes, critters, and your state as a human system all change daily. Looking back, the days when I was challenged the most were the days that I’m most proud of.

What were those most challenging days, you ask?

The first nail-biter was running low on water while hiking alone in one of the driest parts of the Southern California desert, followed by a close second when I navigated the Knife’s Edge in Goat Rocks Wilderness (see above sentiments!) at sunset with my tramily member, Hummingbear. Life situations can challenge us beyond what we’ve experienced before, making us stronger both mentally and physically.

As with anything, you can totally go at it alone. I set off from the Mexican border as a solo female hiker. People asked often if I was scared to go alone. I sensed that I would manage, creating community as I went. Placing my trust in that truth was so freeing, and it is exactly what unfolded during those first weeks on-trail.

Creating community is deeply embedded in our human DNA.

To plug into the PCT community was such a joy, and I was so, so happy to settle into my “tramily”, which is trail + family. Made up of myself and a mix of hikers from the US and Europe, I was thrilled to share the experience with like-minded souls. My core three tramily members hailed from Germany, and truly became family. Curious, open minded, brave, and funny. I found my tribe, and forged bonds that will last a lifetime.

Hiking the PCT, you are always doing two things - hiking north (or south) and following the trail. Winding over mountains, crossing gently (or sometimes not so gently!) flowing waterways, and sometimes following a path that seems to disappear all together.

Where is the path? It was just here!

I loved guessing where the trail would go. While hiking uphill, and particularly on switchbacks, you could pretty reliably guess where the next turn would lead. Every once in a while, your best guess would be wayyyyyyy off, and the trail veered off in a completely random direction. This always gave me a thrill, knowing I didn’t always know every turn. Like life, the path always magically somehow appeared. The secret was to just keep moving forward and watch for the signs.

On top of these lessons, I learned a very real truth. So beautifully simple, but so powerful when lived.

The journey of a thousand miles truly begins with a single step.

Take that first step, friends. And after that first step?

Just. Keep. Going.

Cheers!

AKA Ladybug (my PCT trail name).

P.S. Thanks for joining me on this journey shared with a heart full of gratitude, awe, and a renewed strength. Please subscribe to my Substack to not miss a post. Also, send snacks. Always snacks.

Dear Readers,

Palm trees changed my life. Might sound ridiculous coming from a girl born and raised in the Inland Northwest, but hear me out. It’s kind of a funny origin story of sorts.

When I was a kid, my mom took my sisters and I on an epic train ride to visit her family in California. Watching the landscape zip past as we headed from our home state of Washington down the west coast, the world outside slowly began to change. We hadn't been outside of the Pacific Northwest yet, and were over the moon to be California bound on the Coast Starlight Amtrak train.

It was the most thrilling moment of my young life thus far... we ate breakfast together in the gently swaying dining car (that’s where my love of diners came from!), I saw my first palm tree, and mom bought me my first jean jacket. Not acid wash, but a gorgeous deep indigo blue.

The travel bug bit me there in California - hard!

Fast forward to my first summer after college spent in the mountains of Colorado as an intern with the local historical society. It was there I met my dear friend Elena, from the small rug weaving village of Teotitlan del Valle in Oaxaca, Mexico. A side gig to help out with "cookouts" in the handcraft gallery and wilderness lodge across the road from the cabin I was living in for the summer was offered to interns as a side gig to make some cash and get a free meal. Working these events together, Elena and I instantly clicked.

I remember her slowly going through the complicated pronunciation of place names of her lovely valley in Oaxaca with me, and I knew I’d visit her family there one day. The following fall I made the journey for Dia de los Muertos. Touching my hand to the pre-Columbian site of Monte Alban perched high above the city, I marveled at the people and culture who crafted such a wonder. And that I was actually there!

It was another palm tree moment.

If I think back at all the times I've been happiest in my life, it was when I was connecting over shared experiences like the train trip or visiting Elena’s village in Oaxaca for the first time. Sharing a nourishing meal, exploring a new landscape, or navigating a conversation with someone from a different language or background as myself.

The perfect jean jacket was lost, I’ve seen many palm trees since, and trains have become my favorite way to travel long distances. I’ve been lucky to travel more than my younger self would have dreamed of. The childlike wonder we approach the world with seems to get lost somewhere along the way. In these uncertain times where the world seems to be shaking beneath us all, sometimes remember these moments that shaped us can be really grounding.

I miss it, but am realizing that what’s lost can be found, and mundane moments can shapeshift into magical ones with the the simple gift of attention. There is so much good out there to be had, in spite of the chaos. I promise.

This past month I once again took a long train trip, the longest one since the California trip. Almost as excited as my eight year old self, I happily ate breakfast in the diner car, chatted with strangers I was paired with randomly at the table, navigated moving to and from cars with the gentle movement of the train, and gazed out the window at a brand new landscape.

That moment of wonder I first felt on the train is something I’ll never forget. I’ll share more about my train adventures soon, but I hope sharing my origin story has sparked something in you. We all have a story inside of us. Something that really shaped how we see the world.

What’s your origin story? How can connecting back ground you in these tough times?

Thanks for reading my first installment of The Ladybug Chronicles, friends.

Cheers, and see you next Sunday!

Thanks for reading The Ladybug Chronicles! I’m excited to dive into writing and drawing these posts and am grateful to everyone who has come along for the journey. I’m a bit nomadic these days, currently housesitting two sweet parakeets in Savannah, Georgia named Lemonade and Periwinkle.

Welcome to The Ladybug Chronicles! Here you’ll find a hodgepodge of observations, musings, and sketches from this wild, wonderful world. My intention is to share my creative journey, and offer some creative medicine that inspires others on their paths.

Chronicles will be delivered to your inbox weekly on Sundays beginning September 21st, 2025.

The Ladybug Chronicles are inspired in part by my time on the Pacific Crest Trail, hiking under the trail name Ladybug. Fellow hiker Maurice gave it to me after noting I was like that kid on the playground, intently staring down at a bug on the ground, when I was supposed to be paying attention to the soccer game going on around me. Seemed about right.

My mom also used to call me Ladybug.

Read more on the fascinating backstory of thru-hike trail names in future chronicles.

I’m Missy, the gal behind the Instagram account @missy.sketches, where I have been sketching the magic in the everyday since my first post on October 8th, 2015. I blogged on Wordpress for quite a few years, and am bringing it back here on Substack!

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