I never know when they’ll show up, the people within the words, the art, like someone peeking through a door ajar, friendly enough to show their face, gentle enough to not barge through — knowing, surely, they will be waved into the heart. 

It was my mother who showed up the most (in real life and my work). Her face and thoughts on cards and prints and books. And the joy was as much mine as hers, standing there, watching and listening to the customer say, “Oh, this is so me,” and my mother replying knowingly, coyly, joyfully, “Well, actually…”

And through the years, I have been blessed with a constant flow of those who have visited my heart and traveled through my hands. Each one a gift. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when she arrived yesterday. Even in her new French attire, I knew exactly who she was. I could feel it. And on this rainy afternoon, a country away, she arrived right on time. 

What a privilege it is to know people. To be vulnerable enough to open the door. To go beyond face value and let them inside. The worthy ones will show up, again and again. And your heart and hands will never be empty.