Beach Thoughts and Wool Socks In Texas
It’s cold in Texas.
Not “let’s light a candle and pretend it’s cozy” cold.
It’s Austin-was-colder-than-Alaska cold, which feels personal. Almost rude. The kind of cold that sneaks into your bones and makes you reconsider every life decision that led you to owning flip-flops instead of snow boots.
Naturally, my brain has responded by going completely rogue and relocating me—mentally, spiritually, and artistically—to the beach.
Because if I can’t feel the sun on my face, I can at least paint my way there.
I’m a beach girl. I always have been. I love every part of it—the sounds, the smells, the people who suddenly become nicer once their shoes are optional. I love the way the air feels heavier but gentler, like it’s wrapping you in a salty hug and whispering, “Relax, you’re not in charge right now.”
I love the ocean in a way that feels slightly unreasonable.
The animals. The miracles. The mystery. The way something so powerful can also be so soothing. The ocean never rushes. It never panics. It never checks its phone. It just shows up every day and does its thing—waves in, waves out—completely unbothered by my calendar.
And every single time I stand near it, I’m reminded that there is a God. A big one. A creative one. A detail-loving, awe-inspiring God who clearly had a good day when oceans were invented. The grandeur of it all has a way of shrinking my problems down to a size that fits neatly back into perspective. Suddenly, the worries that felt loud and urgent become quiet and manageable—like background noise instead of headline news.
So while Texas is currently serving “winter with a side of betrayal,” I’ve been painting beaches. Soft sands. Rolling waves. Places where time slows down and nothing is urgent except deciding whether to walk closer to the water or sit and stare at it a little longer.
These paintings are more than just scenes—they’re escapes. Tiny doorways to warmth. Visual reminders that even when life feels cold, heavy, or overwhelming, beauty is still waiting. Calm is still possible. Joy can still sneak in through unexpected places… sometimes carrying a paintbrush.
Painting these has felt like pressing pause. Like breathing deeper. Like borrowing peace from somewhere far away and bringing it home, one brushstroke at a time. And honestly? It’s been saving me a little this week.
So if you’re cold, tired, overwhelmed, or just craving something expansive and hopeful, these beach paintings are for you. Consider them postcards from my heart—sent from a place where the waves keep moving, the sun keeps shining, and socks are absolutely optional.
If you need me, I’ll be right here—painting sand, dreaming of salt air, and trusting that warmer days (in every sense) are on their way.
