- nessart16
- Jul 31, 2025
- 4 min read
Welcome to The Lake in July, the seventh blog post in my 2025 Calendar Blog Series. Over the rest of this year, I’ll be taking you behind the scenes of each month’s illustration, sharing stories, memories, and reflections that continue to shape my creative journey.
For 2025, I created a collection that bridges my childhood art with my current skill level - I’ve revisited some of my old oil pastel drawings and watercolour paintings, recreated them digitally, and added reflective thoughts, messages, and affirmations that connect what they meant to me then with what they mean to me now. Each month is crafted with care, representing both the season and a personal story.
Sometimes, I have a hard time trusting that life has better plans for me. You can work and plan and imagine a very specific future in your head and still have no idea if that’s truly where you’re meant to go.
So many times, I’ve set my heart on a plan. I’ve convinced myself that it’s the only way something could work. But then, life steps in. Circumstances shift, plans fall apart, doors close and I’m left wondering why.
It can feel disorienting, like being pulled off a path I’d already committed to in my mind.
But when I look back, most of the time, those redirections weren’t detours, they were guidance.
In the moment, I couldn't always see it. I was too attached to what I thought should happen. But with hindsight, I realise now I was being rerouted toward something better. Something more aligned. Something I couldn't yet imagine. And now, I can’t help but be grateful that some of the things I once desperately wished for… didn’t work out.
This is a lesson I keep learning. Again and again. You do your part. You show up, you do the work, you paddle. But after a while, once you’ve put in the effort, you can lean back. You can float. You can trust the water to carry you.
Because the lake... this life, this universe... has a current of its own. It’s moving you, slowly and gently, toward where you’re meant to go. You may not know the direction. You may not even understand it. But the lake knows. It’s always known.
And yes, it’s uncertain. And yes, that surrender can feel scary. But it can also be beautiful. To just look up at the sky, to breathe, to let go, and just… float.
The illustration for this month has its own version of this story.
It was a turning point in my art journey, though it didn’t feel like that at first. I remember sitting in art class, working on this oil pastel piece, and feeling completely disconnected from what I was making. The drawing felt unfinished. There were awkward white spaces and it just didn’t look or feel right, and I was frustrated.
I could have left it there. But something nudged me to try again. With a little encouragement from my teacher, I gave the exact same drawing another go. She demonstrated to me first, and then I tried again on my own. I approached it differently this time, with more attention, more curiosity, and maybe a little more heart. And somehow, it clicked. It turned out to be one of my favourite drawings.
What’s funny is, that pattern repeated itself. I redrew this same piece again when I worked on the digital version. The first time, I didn’t like the style. I had pictured a very specific flavour that I wanted to bring out in the drawing, but it just wasn't sitting right with me. I was starting to feel like the artwork wasn't something I'd create, like I was trying to be someone else. So I redid it. I approached it with a different lens, and followed my intuition and tried not to "make it turn out a certain way". And once again, it turned out better.
It felt like a reminder and confirmation of the message of this month: sometimes, things don’t work out the first time. Or even the second. But each version is part of the process.
Sometimes, the redirection is the lesson.
the first attempt and the second attempt (digitally), left to right
So this month’s message is this: Trust the lake.
Do your part. Put in the effort. But when it’s time, allow yourself to stop paddling. Allow yourself to float. To be led. Because maybe the current knows something you don’t yet understand. Maybe it's taking you somewhere better than you ever imagined.
Not everything you dream of will happen exactly the way you want.And that’s okay. Because sometimes what doesn’t work out is what makes space for something better. And like my little oil pastel painting, sometimes the second, or third, or even fourth version of something is where the real magic lives.
Stay tuned for August's story, and if you haven’t yet, check out my
2025 calendar collection to bring these illustrations into your home!
- nessart16
- Jul 4, 2025
- 4 min read
Welcome to The Bowl in June, the sixth blog post in my 2025 Calendar Blog Series. Over the rest of this year, I’ll be taking you behind the scenes of each month’s illustration, sharing stories, memories, and reflections that continue to shape my creative journey.
For 2025, I created a collection that bridges my childhood art with my current skill level - I’ve revisited some of my old oil pastel drawings and watercolour paintings, recreated them digitally, and added reflective thoughts, messages, and affirmations that connect what they meant to me then with what they mean to me now. Each month is crafted with care, representing both the season and a personal story.
June’s calendar illustration came from a place I'm much too familiar with: my relationship with change.
It's always been a bit of a push-pull. I’ve always been a little resistant to it. Maybe even scared. I like comfort. I like familiarity. But, oddly enough, when things stay the same for too long, I start to feel restless, even overwhelmed. It’s a bit of a paradox. I crave the safety of routine, but also yearn for movement, freshness, and something new when things get too still.
Change, to me, feels like a double-edged sword. It’s uncomfortable when it arrives, but it’s even more uncomfortable when it doesn’t.It’s comforting and terrifying, sometimes even in the same breath.
June’s message is about welcoming change with an open heart.
It’s about trusting that when something feels like it’s ending, it might actually be the beginning of a new chapter. That growth often doesn’t feel magical when it’s happening; sometimes it feels like discomfort, confusion, or even grief. But that’s still growth.
It’s about learning to let it come and go as it must, like seasons, or tides, or breath.
This month’s artwork is a still life oil pastel drawing of a fruit bowl, and creating it was a moment where I actually felt like a real artist. The blending, the shapes, the colours — all of it made me feel connected to something deep and true. The bowl was from my teacher’s home, and I spent time studying the textures on the apples, the play of light, and added a somewhat "abstract" background that brought it all to life.
And while the artwork came from a study in observation, the message on the flip side of the calendar came from a deeper place: a study in reflection.
That ordinary, humble fruit bowl became something more to me. A symbol and a metaphor. Its purpose is simple, to hold fruit. Sometimes it’s full, overflowing with colour and life. Other times, it’s empty. But that emptiness doesn’t mean the bowl has lost its purpose. It’s not broken. It hasn't failed. It’s just waiting. Preparing for the next season, its next offering.
And maybe it will hold apples again. Or oranges. Or strawberries. Or, who knows… maybe a single googly eye and a crayon from somewhere deep in the universe of “random things found around the house.”
Not quite the original plan, but maybe the bowl’s just having a quirky little identity crisis.
The point is, something will come. Something always does. The bowl is never truly empty. It’s simply in transition. And so are we.
When something feels like it’s ending, we often panic. We hold on tighter. We grieve.But what if that "emptying" is just the beginning of the next chapter? What if the discomfort we feel isn’t a sign of failure or loss, but simply space being made for something new?
This metaphor means so much to me because I lived it.
Back in college, I went through a phase where I felt very disconnected from my art. I couldn’t make sense of it. Creating used to bring me joy, but suddenly it felt heavy, like I was losing my love for it altogether. No matter how hard I tried to push through, nothing flowed... at least not the way I wished it to. And I kept asking myself:
If I care about this so much, why does it feel so hard?
For a long time I tried to force the fruit back into the bowl. I kept trying to “make it happen,” hoping that if I just worked harder, the spark would return. But it didn’t. At least, not right away.
It was only toward the end of my four years that something shifted. I stopped seeing the discomfort as a problem. I started to see it as space for preparation. The bowl wasn’t broken. It was just… not full yet.
So I used that time. I built my website. I built my shop. I wrote out client dreams and lists of what I wanted to create once I was ready again. I prepared for it and planned for it. I didn’t know when the fruits would return, but I trusted that they would. And when they did, I’d be ready.
That shift — from fear to preparation — changed everything for me.
So here’s what I’m still learning, and maybe what you need to hear too:
When life feels like it’s “emptying out,” it doesn’t mean everything is ending. It might just mean that you’re in between chapters.
The bowl isn’t broken. The bowl isn’t empty. It’s simply being cleared out to make space for what’s next.
You don’t have to rush to fill it. You can use that space to rest, to reflect, to rebuild, to prepare yourself for what’s coming.
Because something is coming.Change is coming. And sometimes, the most uncomfortable seasons are the ones right before something good begins.
So this month, let’s remind ourselves:
The bowl is never truly empty. It’s just waiting. Preparing. Holding space. And so are we.
Stay tuned for July's story, and if you haven’t yet, check out my
2025 calendar collection to bring these illustrations into your home!
- nessart16
- May 7, 2025
- 4 min read
Updated: May 30, 2025
Welcome to The Metamorphosis in May, the fifth blog post in my 2025 Calendar Blog Series. Over the rest of this year, I’ll be taking you behind the scenes of each month’s illustration, sharing stories, memories, and reflections that continue to shape my creative journey.
For 2025, I created a collection that bridges my childhood art with my current skill level - I’ve revisited some of my old oil pastel drawings and watercolour paintings, recreated them digitally, and added reflective thoughts, messages, and affirmations that connect what they meant to me then with what they mean to me now. Each month is crafted with care, representing both the season and a personal story.
And a quick plug: my 2025 calendar collection is available at a lovely discounted price till I run out! From tabletop and wall calendars to mini calendars, calendar cards, wallpapers, and bookmarks, there’s something for everyone in my shop.
We’ve all been there: that moment when we find ourselves stuck in the trap of “I need to be there.” I’ve fallen into this mindset more times than I’d like to admit, and it’s something I’m sure many of us can relate to.
As a child, I distinctly remember one of my English textbooks featuring a poem about metamorphosis. Although I can't recall if the word itself was part of the poem, I vividly remember adopting the term "morphometasis" into my mental vocabulary. It became something my inner voice was deeply familiar with, a word that made perfect sense in my world. To me, metamorphosis was the caterpillar transforming into a butterfly, so naturally, morphometasis must mean the butterfly reversing the process, turning back into a caterpillar.
That image stuck with me, clear as day. Whenever I felt down, or like I was falling behind, or simply "off," I would picture myself as a butterfly and say to myself, "I’m going through morphometasis." It became my way of expressing the opposite of transformation - the feeling of moving backward, or of being stuck in place while everyone else seemed to be moving forward.
I was a little girl in a new city, learning to English, struggling to make lasting friendships, surrounded by little peers who seemed so confident in themselves, even at that age. I can still hear the quiet thoughts that passed through my mind back then - “They’re metamorphing, but I’m morphometa-ting."
And now, as an adult, I still catch myself in those thoughts. It’s so easy to look around and see others seemingly transforming, stepping into their next phase with confidence while I feel stuck in the cocoon. It’s tempting to ask, “Why am I not moving ahead? Why aren’t I changing? Where are my wings?”
But here’s the truth: metamorphosis -true, meaningful change - takes time. It’s a process, not an overnight event. Just like a caterpillar entering its cocoon, the journey of transformation is a messy one. The caterpillar literally breaks down into an enzyme soup (the flash reference, anyone?) before it can emerge as a butterfly. It needs the right conditions to undergo this transformation, and so do we.
It’s easy to forget this, especially when we feel like we’re falling behind or not moving fast enough. But the reality is, our time to take flight will come, and it will come at the right time. And until then, instead of rushing the process or wishing it would hurry up, we can focus on preparing ourselves. Like the caterpillar chomping on leaves, we can work on building our lives and our strength, so we’re ready when the time comes for us to spread our wings.
For the original illustration of May, I drew inspiration from a past piece I made during one of my classes. It was an oil pastel painting where I had just learned the technique of blending. At that time, I was obsessed with gradients and used them everywhere. Bright, vibrant colors filled my work, and I was thrilled to finally step into the world of semi-professional oil pastels - such a huge milestone for me.
For this calendar illustration, I wanted to capture that same essence and energy but put my own spin on it. I recreated the bright colors and the beautiful blue background, but this time, I had a bit more practice with drawing butterflies :)
The story behind May’s illustration is incredibly personal to me. It reflects a message I have to remind myself of every day: change takes time, and growth is a journey, writing this blog is another way im doing that. Though I’m not always great at remembering this, I’m getting better. And my hope is that this message resonates with you too.
For me, art is so much more than just creating beautiful visuals. It’s about sharing pieces of my heart and my journey, hoping that it will bring someone else a little comfort or inspiration. A lot of my work is a way for me to say, “I'm okay, and you’re okay.” It’s a little reminder that we’re all in this together, and it’s okay to move at our own pace.
So, if you’re feeling a little stuck today, know this: Your metamorphosis is happening. It may take time, but when you’re ready, you’ll spread your wings and take flight. In the meantime, keep building. Keep growing. Your time will come, and when it does, you’ll be more than ready.
Stay tuned for June's story, and if you haven’t yet, check out my
2025 calendar collection to bring these illustrations into your home!
