Three Steps for Getting Unstuck
Was it only two months ago that we set all of those new years resolutions? Just months ago, I had so much momentum. All of my creative dreams were clear, and I was actively working my way towards them, day by day. But lately, I have found myself feeling stuck - in shadows of self-doubt and stagnation, that seem to be getting the better of me. I know I want to finish this project and start that new one, but somehow, something keeps getting in the way. But there is some good news here - I have been in this creative dance with myself long enough that I have learned some ways to get myself out of it, that don’t involve affirmations, magical thinking, or forcing my way out of it.
When I find myself stuck in a rut creatively, I try to focus less on getting myself out of the rut (read - producing more work or finishing more projects) and instead focus on giving to myself in a way that will make me feel good. And then, in that state of feeling good, I will naturally produce more creative work. Like a flower sitting in soil that’s been well-nourished, it’s eventually bound to bloom.
I like to keep this process simple and feeling oriented - where the exact actions I take differ based on where I am at, so that the focus again remains not on what I am doing, but how I am feeling.
Do something that makes you feel creative (other than that thing that you’re “stuck” on)
It might be putting on a really fun and over-the-top outfit to wear to work. It might be putting on some loud music and dancing all silly. Or it might be collecting and arranging some fallen branches you find on a walk. It doesn’t matter what you do - other than that it’s not your usual “thing",” and that it brings you into the feeling state of creativity, even if briefly.
Do something that makes you feel nourished.
Take a slow salt bath. Drink a steaming cup of bone broth or herbal tea. Accomplish nothing on your to-do list for an entire day and lay on the couch watching TV. While you may be drawn towards the more extravagant forms of nourishment, this can also be very simple - have you eaten in the last few hours? Have you rested? Did you drink water? Focus on tending to your very basic bodily needs in ways that feel really good to you.
Keep showing up for your thing every day, regardless of the outcome.
That’s right - for the first two steps to be in service of getting you unstuck, you do have to keep showing up. But now, it’s hopefully from a creative cup that is a little more overflowing, and a body that is a little bit better satiated. You may not write a New York Times bestseller or paint the sistine chapel, but you will be working, and making, and doing that thing you do in a way that is tailored to you, and your body, and your needs.
And the catch? You will get stuck again. And again. And again. And hopefully, you will remember to return to this beautiful cycle, of stepping back from the action and nourishing the thing that is doing it all in the first place. Rinsing and repeating until you are back in a rhythm with yourself.
Welcome back.
How I Freed Up My Artwork
For most of my life, I have strongly identified with the role of a writer. For many years I wrote a blog, performed spoken word poetry, and was constantly in tune with the metaphor and meaning hidden in my internal world. But, in January of 2020, I felt inspired to explore a new creative outlet, bought myself a Winsor Newton watercolor set, and started painting. I had no idea this would turn into such a passion of mine, let alone a business, or that I would one day call myself an artist. I had always drawn as a young girl and throughout my life, but that was something I hid in notebooks and did in solitude. Me? I was a writer.
To loosen myself up from this strongly held identity, I had to make a few perspective shifts. Here are some things I found helpful:
I gave myself permission to explore a new creative path and hold multiple identities. A lot of books on creativity will tell you to focus on one thing so that you can perfect it (i.e. “to be a writer you must write”). For many years I felt a lot of guilt in stepping away from my writing - like I was letting myself down somehow, if I allowed myself to draw and paint instead. To combat this, I adopted a new mentality, one that allowed my creative expression to take many forms throughout my life, based on what I needed and I was drawn to in that time period. I chose to focus on living on a creative life, rather than overly identifying with one label or another.
I found inspiration in people who had walked many creative paths - like Suleika Jaouad, a writer who started to paint later on in life, and shared it all with the world. She could confidently hold both of these identities in tandem, so why couldn’t I?
I let go of the need for my artwork to look realistic. So often when you think of a painting or a drawing, you think of highly detailed landscapes or portraits that look like exactly like a photograph. The jawlines, the shadows, the contouring, are all perfect representations of the subject. And while that style is absolutely a work of art, for me it often felt constricting, like I had to effort my drawing into something, rather than letting it emerge into what it wanted to be on its own. When I started to embrace my own quirky whimsical style, drawing women that were anatomically incorrect and houses that didn’t have perfect proportions, I remembered that art is not just intended to be a photographic representation of something you see. It is also an energetic imprint, a playful interpretation, a translation, a hieroglyph of a point in time. Imprinted in a style that is completely mine.
I started to embrace my style, trusting that the people who liked it would find me, and people who didn’t would walk along.
Goal Setting on a Snow Day
As we enter into this new year of 2024, so much is being said of goal setting and achievement orienting. What do you want to accomplish? Who do you want to become? What will you manifest? And I am a huge proponent of taking the time to reflect, set goals and point your arrows in the direction you want to go - I even just signed up for a free workshop on this very thing! And yet, as I gaze out my window upon the first winter snowfall, a layer of soft snow blanketing all our growth, I want to look at my goal setting from a wider lens. With manifestation and creation, we often think the work is simply about achieving the external thing - making the painting, winning the award, getting the job, doing the work. And while these things are certainly part of the creation process, so is the destruction. So is the cleaning out of closets to make space for new materials. So is the day spent entirely on the couch, just because you need to rest. So is every “rough draft” and “not my best.” These sidesteps, creative pauses or breaks - where we step away from our work towards a goal to tend to ourselves, clean house and reset our foundations - are actually not sidesteps at all, but vital parts of the creative cycle. Just look at nature. Look out the window where, covered in snow, everything is asked to slow, pause, reset. Do the laundry, cook the chili, shovel the sidewalk. Because if we did not, and if spring came too soon, our buds would prematurely bloom, without having taken the time to get all the nutrients needed to stay strong through the summer.
Part of thriving is pausing and playing. Part of getting shit done is doing nothing. And part of becoming the person you want to be is holding a thousand funerals for all the versions of yourself that you once were. And then donating her old clothes to Good Will.
I think of this all as I spend a lot of my free time not in churning out artwork or launching new products, but in reflecting on the next steps I want to take. In walking through the wintry woods with my dog, her playful hops through the snow reminding me we have nothing if not enjoyment. In reorienting my desk to better face the window looking out at the snow, creating more space in my creative landscape. I can’t wait to share what will grow from it.
The old man at the Subaru service station reminds me of how I want to exist in the world.
Surrounded by plastic chairs and car parts and keyboard clanging and Men’s Health magazines, he is sitting there, reading a book with yellowed pages and worn edges. He is in this world, and simultaneously completely immersed in his own one. I am anxious, needing to leave the service station with enough time to get to another appointment, looking at my computer. But seeing him to my side settles me. Like I can exist in both places - this fast-paced, car-part world, and the slowed down, here and now. In the last half hour of my waiting I walk into the brambles behind the building that hug along the banks of a gentle stream. There is a subtle path that takes me under the overpass and into the forest where I am surrounded by nothing but trees, just minutes from the service station. I collect fallen pine needles and brambling branches that look like miniature chandeliers and I walk back to pay my bill and get to where I need to go on time. But for those brief moments I am reminded of my own wildness, my own freedom, my own humanness, existing just behind the machine service station.
Letter writing is another way that I love to straddle this line. I could just as easily send a thank you text and cross gratitude off my to-do list, and while I am not above that from time to time, there’s nothing like slowing down and tapping into my heart to share my thanks from a deeper place. Taking the time to make the card, write the message, seal the envelope, take it to the mailbox, and be a part of the whole process. To be reminded of my own wildness, my own freedom, my own humanness, existing just beside text message convenience and email marketing.
This holiday season, when we are surrounded by so much consumerism and Christmas tree lights, I invite you to light a candle. Write a letter. Make your own gift tags out of birch tree bark and attach them to the gifts you ordered on Amazon. Allow yourself to straddle both worlds, embrace the paradox of life, be the old man reading an old book at the service station. And, whenever you can, find five minutes to traipse out in the woods behind your house and be surrounded by trees. I guarantee we will all be better for it.
The Power of the Little Things
Wars are breaking out across the world. People are being hospitalized. Protests are raging. Cold season is coming. I don’t know about you, but often times when these challenges hit I feel paralyzed, like I can never do enough, so I end up doing nothing. I shared a quote recently on my Instagram page by Edward Everett Hale, about how you cannot do everything, but you can do something.
I found myself reflecting on this recently, after speaking with friends and family living through crises. During these times it can often feel like there are no words - like nothing I do or say will ever be enough to stop the war or heal the pain. And it is true - I cannot stop a decades long war, cannot save someone from sickness. But I can do something. I can make a greeting card, or a phone call, or a meal. I can continue to show up with grace and thoughtfulness to those in my sphere, and I can pray that it trickles out. And, if all else fails, I can pray.
I invite you to join me today, in doing something seemingly small for someone in your life going through something challenging. You never know how big this seemingly small thing could be.
On Rest
As my dog is recovering from spay surgery and I am allowing myself to take a sick day for the first time since I can remember, I am thinking a lot about the concept of rest. If you’re here, you’re probably a giver - of thoughtful gifts to the people you love, of your time to others, of your heart. And if you’re a giver, you may be like me and find it challenging to allow yourself to pause, slow down, and rest. But what if resting was not looked at as putting a halt on things, but actually seen as another way of giving - only this time, to yourself?
Sometimes I make art to share with others, sometimes I make art to sell, and other times, in the quiet of the evening, I make art just for me. Tucked into my sketchbook or pinned to the wall in front of my desk, as a reminder of what I want to see and how I want to show up for myself.
As we approach the holidays, we givers often go on overdrive. So, in this October time, I invite you to consider how you might also make space to give to yourself. Will you allow yourself the luxury of vanilla in your latte? A day off to do nothing? A long chat with a good friend when you could be getting things done? What decadence will you give to yourself?
For me, taking a day off to reset is feeling like the luxurious equivalent of covering myself in pearls, laying on a velvet chaise and being fed bon-bons all day. For you, it might be something else entirely. I encourage you to find your own version of this luxury, this rest. And, if you’d like help creating it an artistic memento of it, let me know.
Don’t stop giving. Just make room to give to yourself, too.
Five Ways to Live a More Creative Life (Without “Making Art”)
Go on a walk in your neighborhood and collect the wildflowers and plants growing around you. Notice all of the beauty in what you had previously seen as weeds, and make an arrangement of them at home to display for yourself.
Practice the lost art of loitering. When you have in-between time (between appointments, work meetings, dinner with a friend) resist the urge to fill the space with a phone call or an errand or an accomplishment. Let yourself loiter, sitting outside on a park bench and watching people walk by. Wander into a gift shop down the street, stroll through the neighborhood and look at the houses, and embrace the in-between as the space from which all good ideas grow.
As best you can, find ways to add more walking into your life. Is work nearby? Get up a little earlier and walk there. Errand to run down the street? Walk! Use this time to mull over any creative impulses coming to you and be inspired by the world around you.
Work with what you have. Rather than trying to create something grand, use the resources you have in your home and look at them them in a new way. Painting but no paint? Mix old spices with water and glue. Redecorating on a tight budget? Move the furniture you have into new spots around your house and start to see things in a new light.
Use your clothing to channel the energy you want to feel each day. Play around with different characters and archetypes - sassy art teacher, ballet instructor, boss babe, wild herbalist - and remember that you are the creator of your own reality.
The Beauty of Buying Handmade
This past month I had the pleasure of commissioning a custom portrait of our puppy by a local artist, as a birthday gift for my fiancé. Working with her was a breeze, and there was nothing quite like the look on his face - and the combination of tears and laughter that came out of him - when he first opened this gift, that had been made gift just for him. And that’s the beauty of custom artwork - it’s made just for you. What could be more special than that?
As a sentimental soul, I love giving gifts that are infused with meaning - a nod to someone’s favorite food, or place, or song. We give so many gifts that are just new things - a new sweater, pair of socks, coffee mug - and while these new things have meaning and beauty in their own right, what if you could imbue someone’s personal history and memories into them? In a world full of carbon copies and mass production, why not give something one-of-a-kind? This is why custom artwork is at once more expensive, and at the same time, priceless - because it cannot be remade. And I think that is so, so beautiful.
As I write this, I am looking around my home - a gallery of handmade memories. The painting of the view in front of our summer home, made by a family friend. The coffee table made from an old luggage cart, refinished with beautifully stained wood by my fiance. The house portraits of our childhood and current homes, made by me. These gifts are all distinctly mine and distinctly ours, and they make me feel more at home than something store-bought ever could.
As we go into gift-giving season, I encourage you to think about how to incorporate this handmade element into your gifting. Whether you can afford to commission a custom oil painting by your favorite artist or simply etch someone’s initials into a new hammer, it doesn’t matter. It matters that you took the time, to give something with your someone special in mind. Something that only you could give, something that only they could receive. And I promise you, the look on their face will make all the extra effort worth it.
The Story Behind Happy Place Portraits
When I was about eight years old, my mom asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. I didn’t know at the time, but I did know I loved houses and the stories they tell. So, I told her plain and simple, “I like to look at houses,” with no idea what that could mean for a future career or calling.
As the daughter of an architect, I grew up exploring the newly finished houses my father had designed. I remember visiting one on Martha’s Vineyard island - one of those big gingerbread houses with nooks and crannies and a winding staircase that took you all the way up to a circular room at the top of the world, filled with cushions and a telescope and views of the ocean out the window. I could have explored that house all day. I remember feeling that sense of enchantment looking at my dad’s other projects, and even visiting a friend’s house for the first time. Plain and simple, I loved looking at houses.
When one says this, you might think “real estate agent” or “interior designer,” but what I was drawn to about houses had nothing to do with all that serious stuff that the adults downstairs were talking about, with their big words and important contracts. What I was drawn to was the sense of whimsy I felt in exploring a house, peering around its corners, slowly uncovering the stories it told of the people who lived there. I loved opening the cabinets, tiptoeing down the hall and hearing the floorboards creak, and noticing all the little details that made up a home, a life.
Having spent summers on the island of Nantucket - whose houses literally have names - I always connected to the personality and life of a home, underneath its architectural renderings. Our family’s home out there was full of tchotchkes and trinkets that my grandfather had collected, portraits of family members, and at least ten portraits of the house itself. I grew up with a deep connection to houses - as if they are family members, too.
And so, it’s no wonder why I started painting portraits of homes and happy places. I want to help people tell their stories, and to reconnect with that same childlike whimsy that so many of us feel when walking through a special place. I want to capture a home’s feeling, its essence, so that it can be remembered forever. My style is playful and not-quite-to-scale for that reason - to connect you with the whimsy within you. Perfectly straight lines and proportions? We’ll leave that to the adults downstairs.
Re-branding to Un-brand
For a while, I have been contemplating changing the name of my business. As much as I have loved Letters from a Sage, the concept of letter writing began to feel more constricting than freeing. Yes, I am here to help you write love letters and thank you notes, but I also make custom artwork and stationery. I might host workshops one day. I might offer creative coaching. I might open my own storefront one day. The options are endless. And so, I wanted a name that opened up those opportunities, rather than limited them.
I love Sage’s Studio because it isn’t a brand name. It’s a place. It’s the place from where all my creative work comes - whether it be artwork, writing, performance, or building creative community. And it’s also a spirit - of wisdom, of the natural world, of infusing who I am into everything I make. It gives me room to breathe.
Often in business, you are told to narrow yourself down. Hone in on one thing, get really good at it. Discard other options, interests, talents. Monocrop your product so you can massproduce it. And while that might have value in conventional agriculture and certain creative pursuits, I want my work to be more of a wildflower garden. Where the weeds support the soil that supports the seeds I’m planting. Where everything is part of the process. Where my writing is not taking away from my painting, but actually nourishing it, and vice versa. Where going on a walk and gathering inspiration is just as important as sitting down to work. And where everything grows in its own time.
For years, I thought I had to decide - am I an artist? Or am I a writer? Am I this or am I that? But with Sage’s Studios, I am actively choosing not to decide. To let all of my talents and interests be in support of my growth. Because that is the space that I want to create from, and the space I want to inspire you to live in.
Welcome to Sage’s Studio, featuring artwork, writing and creative community by Sage Dallmus. Rooted in a sense of place and personal wisdom. Here to help you grow your own.
My boyfriend and I watched King Richard last night.
Following the formative years of Venus and Serena Williams, this movie tells the story of their father Richard, and how he helped nurture them into the powerhouses we all know and love. Among the many things that moved me about this movie (hah) was Richard's fierce dedication to the well-roundedness of his daughter's lives. Before his daughters were even born he had a plan - a plan for how he would raise them, and raise them into the talents that they are. Not only did he take them to the courts day in and day out to hone their tennis skills - he was also adamant that they got good grades in school and spent quality time with family and friends. That they were kids. To this tune, he pulled them out of juniors - the tennis match circuit where you go to compete before going pro - and put them in practice, kept them in school, and trusted they would go pro when they were ready. And, as we all know, they did.
While I certainly cannot compare my eventual success to that of Venus and Serena Williams, I find comfort in their father's approach to developing it - as simply one part of their multifaceted, fragile lives. Though less part of a plan and more product of personal necessity, I have pulled myself out of my own version of juniors. This self-titled artist/entrepreneur, who was once posting on Instagram daily, sending weekly newsletters and constantly researching how to optimize and expand and grow, has not played the game in months. Has not posted on social media, sent a newsletter, has considered dropping the whole gig altogether in remembrance of my other interests. Has been taking dance classes, going to therapy, getting through a rough quarter at work, writing and performing again, and planning girls nights with her friends.
While I may never go pro (read - putting the pressure of my financial stability on this venture) with my creative talents, I will continue to go slow - like Richard emphasizes with Venus and Serena - nurturing these talents as one part of my multifaceted, fragile life. I will continue to go slow, and I just wanted to know that while you may not have heard from me in a while, I'm still here.
I've got a few holiday cards up for some last minute shopping, and have slowly centered on my own sea-inspired aesthetic (which magically happened when I stopped trying to force it). I've also had the honor of selling said cards at a local pop-up (so fun!) and performing in a storytelling event - all of which you can check out here on my site.
Here's to 2022. I hope you take the steps towards your dreams, but I also hope you take that class you've been thinking about, take time to spend with family, and take a long walk where you to-do list is the last thing on your mind.
Until next time,
Sage
Creating For An Audience of One.
Many years before I started this business, my dad would tell me that I could sell the greeting cards I made for friends and family. I would always shrug it off, as I had no idea how these from-the-heart messages I made could ever be mass-produced. It wasn’t until I was encouraged to make personalized cards, custom-made for each special occasion, that I started to see a path for selling something that once was so personal. And yet, as I’ve progressed, stepping away from one-of-a-kind cards because it was a lot to keep up with, I’ve lost touch with that personal touch. How do I make cards that speak to someone when I don’t know who I’m speaking to? How do I commemorate occasions we all celebrate in a way that says more than I’m sorry for your loss, or happy birthday?
And the answer I’m discovering is to create for an audience of one. Instead of trying to blanket your product into something that can please the entire world, pick one person. Please them. Make the clothes that they want to wear. Write the words that they need to hear. Draw the image they need to see. And somehow, you may find that this creation connects to more than just that one person.
What does that look like for me right now? Rooting into the people and events in my life, creating cards for their unique needs, and then taking those designs to my shop. It is a slow and steady way to create—I don’t get to sit down and say I need to make more birthday cards, and churn them out. But it does make my shop a tapestry of all the places and people and particularities that I hold dear. It does give me a body of work that comes from-the-heart. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Showing Up
I’m remembering this quote I read in some literary magazine years ago—“one of the hard things about writing is that you have to show up, but you don’t know what you’re showing up for.” I collaged this quote onto a photo of a mother brushing her daughter’s wet hair after a shower, the most loving, simple act of showing up she could do, and in almost all avenues of my life, it still rings true.
One of the hardest parts about writing or making art or creating is that you have to show up, but you don’t know what you’re showing up for. Let that sink in. Think of the jobs you’ve had, the places you’ve shown up to on time, hung your coat up on the hook, and punched into the clock. Think of the work you did for the time you were allotted. Now, picture yourself showing up on time, but not quite knowing where, or what to do with the time that you have in front of you. Picture yourself sitting down somewhere amidst this unknown, with no one to answer to, not knowing what the heck to do. Is that not the conundrum we’re all in?
As writers, artists and creatives, we are all temporarily hovering mid-air, knowing that there is this thing that we want to do and make and become, but not quite knowing what it is yet. But we show up—most days—hang out coats on our studio racks or in the closet of the old bedroom our parents cleared out for us to use, and we do what we can of the thing. We stare at the words. We add color to the page. We recycle the page. We reorganize the place where we keep them. We water the plants. We brush the daughter’s hair. We show up and we show up and we show up, and some days we still have nothing to show for it. And that is the hardest part. But if instead of seeing ourselves as stuck creatives, or writers that cannot write or painters that cannot paint, we see ourselves as gardeners of new beginnings, tending to the seeds. We see ourselves as parents tucking our little girl into bed after a shower. And suddenly the smallest, most simple acts are infused with a purpose greater than you ever could have imagined.
Darling, you’re so much more interesting when you’re in process.
For the past few years, I have just wanted to make sense. After all the all-over-the-place-ness, I have just wanted to arrive at the destination of a job title, so that when my mom’s friends ask me what I do at dinner parties, I could tell them something they would understand. After years of living in ashrams and working in cafe’s and constantly moving to a different place, all I have wanted to be is normal. To be stable. To be successful. And while I think those things are incredibly important, and while I am not advocating to “follow your heart” with complete disregard for financial stability, your personal relationships or your place in the world (I have done that, don’t do that)—I don’t think those things should be the goal. For, after having traded in the hippie skirts for work-appropriate-attire, after having gotten the job title, I haven’t found the success I’ve been seeking. And that’s not because there’s anything wrong with working for a company you respect, or for wanting employer-provided-healthcare. It’s because, through all this, I haven’t been putting my talents to use. I have arrived at the destination of a job title, and yet I haven’t gone anywhere with it.
I think as we consider the question of “what do I want to do with my life?” it’s important to not think about the job title and all that could come with it, but to instead consider all the actions in a day that would make up the noun of it. So, when I was a barista, I really made drinks and made delightful small-talk with strangers turned into neighbors. When I work as a customer service representative, I really answer emails and phone calls and try to get angry people to be less angry, and confused people to be less confused. And, as an artist/entrepreneur/writer, I make beautiful things, I talk to people about the beautiful things they’ve been through to get where they are, and I try to share those things with the world.
When considering the question of “what do I want to do with my life?” I think it’s imperative to consider the wild possibility that maybe, just maybe, that thing that we actually want to do might actually be able to give us all those things I thought I was looking for, and more. Maybe, by digging deep into ourselves and taking the risk to actually develop our talents and follow our joy, we’ll be able to serve others better. We’ll be able to bring them joy, and a product or service they can really use. We’ll be able to be normal, and stable and successful, while still being ourselves, and isn’t that so much more interesting than a job title?
Stay tuned for next time, when I share the story of my upstairs neighbor Julie, who also happens to be the woman behind Aloha Lovely, an island-inspired lifestyle brand and clothing line. She has taken these questions in stride, and has learned how to weave her talents into her working life in a way I’m sure you’ll be inspired by.
Meet Sarah Lynch of Mama Gaia Co
If someone told Sarah Lynch that she would be building an app & AI for her own business a few years ago, she would have run in the other direction. A Massachusetts born creative living in Colorado, Sarah studied English in college and for many years dreamed of becoming a journalist. As many do after graduation, though, Sarah found herself working a few different jobs to pay the bills—waitressing in a bustling restaurant and working for a small startup called Mama Gaia. At the time this business was owned by another woman and was comprised of a few refrigerated vending machines doling out healthy food options, along with a food truck to prepare the food and labels to package and market it. Sarah mostly worked in the food trucks to start out, whistling away while cooking up concoctions and then bringing them to the nearby apartment complexes and office parks where these vending machines lived. Sarah loved this little side-gig, not knowing that she would soon receive an email that would change her life. Suddenly, at 24 years old, she was offered to buy and own the company. Even though the original owner gave her a week to decide, Sarah immediately knew she would do it, despite what anyone might have told her. She took the offer and she took her time, slowly building Mama Gaia into what it is today.
A refrigerated vending machine company featuring goodies from local producers, Mama Gaia seeks to shorten the supply chain from creator to consumer. Local restaurants and food makers get prime real estate in these sleek and slender fridges, housed in larger building complexes where the hungry hover at every corner. This wasn’t always the business model, but was rather born out of the time Sarah took when she was starting out to determine what Mama Gaia was all about.
Taking the food trucks and label making out of the business altogether, Sarah simplified, and jokes that for her first few years she was basically a vending machine stocker. Walking to local food vendors down the street in Denver and taking their treats a few blocks over to the machines, where she’d happen upon a customer looking for a bite to eat, Sarah had her hands in every step of this localized food chain. She was building this community, step by step, and started to realize that she was really tapping into something that could grow. Throughout this time, Sarah saw problems within the current state of the food system—sourcing products from faraway lands, having them sit in warehouses and freezers before getting to the consumer, and then being thrown in landfills when not put to use—and created solutions with Mama Gaia. Not only are the products in her vending machines sourced locally; any leftovers are put back into the community and donated to food shelters.
While Sarah never thought of herself as a business owner, looking back she realizes that she had been fantasizing about starting something herself for years. Every time she walked into a restaurant she would point out what she would have done differently, but never imagined she would actually do it. She saw herself as a creative, not a CEO, and yet once Mama Gaia was in her hands, she was able to put those very skills to the test. It was her journalistic impulse at work when she talked to restaurant owners and community members, constantly seeking out stories from the people around her to figure out what they needed and what wasn’t working. Through years of trails and tribulations, learning each lesson step by step, Sarah started to turn this business model into something she could really scale. With the help of her two co-founders, a small team and some tech companies, Sarah began to build the technology behind these vending machines so that it was no longer in the hands of a third-party conglomerate. Again, something this creative writer and music enthusiast never would have predicted for herself in a million years. If she has learned anything in business, it’s that there are always going to be hurdles—like the time she broke a fridge while transporting it across town and had to put it back together herself—and you have to learn to be both resilient and patient.
Hearing Sarah speak about her business is both comforting and familiar, a story you hear from entrepreneurs world-over who happened into an industry, were thrown challenge after challenge, and just didn’t give up. In a week, Mama Gaia will be launching onto the market, to be featured in residential communities, universities and healthcare facilities, and eventually franchised to meal kit companies and scaled nationwide. While Sarah may not know exactly how she will get to that final step, she knows that all she needs to do is take the next one, and the path will unfold. Sarah gives me hope—that there’s no rush, that all of our creative impulses can find home in something successful, and that one day I will get a taste of this Colorado-based business myself, grabbing a fresh and healthy snack out of the vending machine on my way through my mom’s apartment complex.
Meet Heather Carroll of Rare Bird Aesthetics.
When Heather Carroll started making earrings, she didn’t know she’d be starting a business. A long-time fashionista and collector of beautiful objects, Heather was on the hunt for eye-catching jewelry. She looked on eBay, in thrift stores and at vintage markets, yet everything she found left her ears in pain. The weight of most statement jewelry was too much to bear, and so instead of looking outwardly, Heather turned to her own craft box. Handwoven textiles she had collected years ago were slowly transformed into loud and lightweight ear candy. Pops of gold, deep purple and muted earth tones brought color to her already eclectic look. Initially, these earrings were just for her. But as she continued wearing them, people started noticing them, and the rest is, well, history.
If you look at Heather’s family history, it’s no surprise that she ended up in the jewelry industry. Her late grandfather ran a jewelry store on Long Island, where Heather would go after school and sports practice to help him with the shop. One might say Heather learned her love for both order and flair there, meticulously organizing the jewelry displays and wiping down the cases while developing an appreciation for jewels of all kind. Her grandfather was a mentor to her in all things style and business, hammering the entrepreneurial idea into her mind that if she wanted to make something happen, Heather would have to make it happen.
And, she did, going on to manage a bustling cafe in the heart of Porter Square, to turning her jewelry dreams into a reality. She now is the artist behind Rare Bird Aesthetics—a jewelry and decor line transforming colorful handwoven textiles into beautiful goods that can spice up your life, your home and your look. Heather’s many talents have found a home in Rare Bird—not only does she make gorgeous things, but she also takes gorgeous product photography, and has a knack for working with her customer base in a real and personal way. You can catch her on Instagram, selling her earrings in a flash story sale, or at a local market, where she’ll help you find the perfect piece to match your outfit. Heather knows her customer, because initially, she was one.
If Heather has learned anything about entrepreneurship, it would be in not limiting yourself. While originally thinking that Rare Bird was solely an earring business, after a conversation with a good friend she soon realized that she was just scratching the surface. Her materials—handwoven natural fibers sourced from a woman-owned sustainable business—soon became the raw material for adornments of all kind—hair clips, necklaces, tissue boxes, mirrors. Even the scraps she has get turned into something, whether it be one-of-a-kind collage earrings, or weavings to frame and put up on the wall. Heather does it all, letting nothing go to waste and leaving no stone unturned. When she does take a moment to slow down, it is the makers behind her materials that keep her going. Knowing that 50% of her purchase goes directly to supporting women in need helps fuel the work behind Rare Bird, which at times can be tiring. But, with a pair of scissors in hands, who knows where Heather will go.
Heather is open to possibilities when it comes to what the future will hold. She plays with the idea of running Rare Bird full-time—selling at markets and online—and of opening up a funky cafe with her partner, where her love of coffee and creativity will meet. If and when that place opens up, I know I’ll be the first to be there.
The Importance of Slowing Down.
I wake up this morning, do my morning routine, and choose to throw my agenda away. It is snowing, the flakes falling softly on the hard earth, and for the first time in a while I feel permission to pause. To sit on the couch and watch the world go by. To dream in my journal, talk to my mom, and think about all the things that lie ahead. I know I will get to them eventually, reach my hands out to that infinite future, but today is not for that. Today is for slowing down.
I think so much in the business world is about achieving. About doing—as much as you can, as often as possible, as quickly. And in a corporate environment, where you are inherently subject to your employer’s schedule, this is literally your job. But, for those of us who have taken the leap to forge out on our own, we get to create the rules. We get to set our schedules, determine what is important to us and how we wish to achieve it. And we get to do that in our own way.
And yet, still when you listen to entrepreneurs and change makers, it’s all about the hustle. The outreach. The output. But for the creatives among us, this scrapes against our fundamental need to take our time, and let our creation guide the process. A few months ago I joined a greeting card business group, of other people in the industry working to hone their product and get it in front of more folks. In many ways this group was great and incredibly educational, but ultimately left me feeling like a hamster on a wheel, struggling to keep up. And so I decided to step away and take my time. And maybe that means that right now, my business is not thriving by conventional means—I do not have a huge following, and I am not raking in money in sales every week. But, when I think about it, I think that that is where I should be at the beginning of my business. Like a runner going too fast and tripping on your own shoelaces, I think too much too soon can leave you with nothing to fall on when things go wrong. Instead, I am interested in the slow start, in which I put the necessary building blocks beneath me before I get to wherever I’m going, and then trust that I’ll get there, in time. And at that point, I will have fully arrived. This means slowing down to create, and play around with what it is I am creating. Slowing down to meditate on my purpose, and how I want to put it out into the world.
While I did throw my agenda away today, slowing down does not at all mean stopping, or overly analyzing every move to the point of stagnation. It just means making less moves initially, and valuing the time that it takes to get through the initial growing pains. It means committing to process over results, and finding joy throughout that process. It means slowing down and staring out the window, sometimes. Who knows, you might even end up getting inspired.
Just do it.
Got something you’ve been wanting to start but don’t know where to begin? Here’s my advice—the stuff you won’t find in business books and how-to guides: don’t write a business plan. Just do it.
When I started the poetry open mic, I did not sit down and decipher how I wanted to advertise, what our brand would be, or who my target audience was. I was sitting on a swivel chair sharing with my boss about my love for spoken word poetry, and he suggested we start an open mic, and boom, a seed was planted.
Sometimes it isn’t something you’ve been longing to do for years. Sometimes you had never even thought of it before, it just as well could not have happened, but by some stroke of luck the stars align and a seed gets planted and you go with it.
And I went with it, collaborating with local artists to build a stage, create a poster and determine the details. Heck, I didn’t even have a cohost (I knew I needed a cohost) by the time we set the start date. And yet, by some stroke of luck she showed up weeks before and joined in. We planned, we prodded, and then we just ran with it.
Sure, this thing that we created is not alive today—thanks, covid—but it speaks to the creative spirit that I believe is the start to anything great—the willingness to start out good enough. I stuck the signs up with duct tape. I advertised on Facebook, Instagram and word of mouth and that’s it. And somehow I grew this thing from a fledgling bird—events had never been seen before in this space—to a fully attended, shoulders-bumping-into-each-other gathering. Just by doing it.
I knew there were things to be tweaked—better signage that didn’t fall off throughout the night, larger outreach, a way to generate income—but I also knew that if I did all that before getting started, I never would.
I think the worst thing you can do as a creative person is sit still. Think. Plan, even. The best things happen by jumping in, getting your hands dirty, and figuring out to kinks as you go. Same goes for my greeting card business. Did I sit down and determine my brand and marketing plan before getting started? No. The idea was given to me after a long line of creating cards without even knowing I was, and then I made a website overnight. The user experience wasn’t great, I didn’t know how to accept payment, but I did it, and that made all the difference.
Today, as I continue going on, I still hit walls when I want to strategize my way to success. When I try to find answers in instructional guides, and even in my own mind. But I have to remind myself that that is not how to get there. I have to remind myself that instead of thinking my way into what I want my aesthetic to be, I should create it. Rather than discerning my target audience in my head, I should talk to the people on my block. Instead of sitting top heavy, trying to be what I think I should, I should get going, and become whatever I already am. Willing to start imperfectly, all my kinks exposed, and iron them out along the way.
Will you join me?
My story.
As I said last week, I might not be qualified to tell you how to run a business. But, at this point in my life I can consider myself a certified risk taker, soul searcher and creative problem solver—all things that I believe are the building blocks of entrepreneurship. This is my story.
It all started on the 4th of July after my first year in college. House music bumping, ping pong balls flying, friends throwing up in bushes. I looked around at these people around me—classmates who all seemed to wear the same clothes and tell the same jokes—and felt strongly that I was not one of them. I didn’t know who I was instead, but in a matter of months I had un-enrolled in my sophomore year at Trinity, and bought a ticket to East Africa on a service learning trip. To find myself.
And from there the searching didn’t stop—I went to an ashram in the Bahamas, an intentional community in upstate New York, a hippie school in Vermont, spiritual center in Hawaii, and Buddhist college in Colorado. I won’t bore you with the details, but over the years I got comfortable in the uncomfortable, I asked a lot of questions, and was clearly not on the path that most people my age were walking.
Now, what the heck does that have to do with entrepreneurship?, you might be wondering. Isn’t that just an entitled rich girl traveling the world to avoid taking responsibility for her life? In many ways, yes, it was. I made a lot of decisions I regret over the years—I prioritized my own journey over my relationships with others. I lost friends. I stunted my education and professional growth multiple times, like a blooming plant continually cut at the node, unable to fully grow. I got rid of everything I knew of home, seeing myself as somehow more enlightened than the people in my past, at that party and elsewhere. But I wasn’t. And now, now that the searching has ceased, I have my regrets, but I have to look for the silver lining.
While I have, since returning home, uncovered a newfound loyalty to all things I left behind—family, sense of place, staying—I have also found a home for the skills that I built in all my wandering, in building my own business.
I did not learn to process data in Excel, nor to improve my website for SEO. I did not learn how to blend watercolor or draw architectural designs. But I did learn how to go against the grain. I did learn how to dig deep past what everyone else thought I should do, to find what I really wanted. I learned how to get by with no mentors, no teacher or boss telling me what to do. I learned how to start things completely from scratch—a book display in a cafe where I worked, a spoken-word poetry performance, a blog, a monthly community meal, a monthly open mic in another cafe where I worked—and to figure it out as I went. And I learned, through it all, to keep going.
I don’t know that I believe we are made or destined to do certain things, but when I look back I can see how my roundabout path got me to here, and I am grateful for it. And now, I am making the choice to use that all as fuel. To keep going.
What experiences in your life have primed you for stepping outside the box, taking risks, and doing it yourself? I look forward to turning this into a space to share stories of grit, creativity and transformation for others on a similar roundabout path, slowly finding their way.
Dream small.
January 4th, 2021. I want to be more intentional about my life, my relationships and my business. They say “start where you are,” so I pull a planner for 2020-2021 out of the recycling bin that my mom gave me in case I didn’t like the other one she gave me. It is covered in flamingos and will only cover half of the year ahead and it is what I have in front of me. I write down five goals for my business—improve product quality, improve business systems, educate myself, build wholesale relationships, and start advertising and growing business. My desk is covered in designs for Valentine’s Day cards that I may or may not use, along with paints, paintbrushes, a ruler, and a list of people to thank. This is where I am, and where I want to be feels huge and imperceptibly far away.
They say dream big, but I wonder if it should really be to dream small. Every day. In bite-sized-chunks that you can digest. Do what is in front of you. Write one page. Reach out to one person. I am glad that I have these goals in front of me—to make my life better—but I also know myself. I know I won’t be able to make them happen if I don’t even know where to start. And if I can’t show up to them in small, tangible ways every day.
And so I break them down. Into questions. How can I improve my marketing today, by setting up my social media posts for the week, reaching out to a friend, and watching an instructional video on Youtube? How can I trick myself into feeling like I am growing things, by propagating plant cuttings that have been sitting in water all winter, or putting on an outfit that makes me feel artsy and interesting? How can I use my day off to put my head down and work, and also open up my heart and play?
These are questions I am here to ask myself, in front of you, on this blog that I am re-beginning in 2021. This is a place for creatives, dreamers, and people who feel like there is something more out there for them. Because I’ve been there. I’ve been the scavenger, leaving everything behind to find my purpose. I’ve gone to three different colleges, I’ve worked for many different people in many different places, and the best part—I still haven’t gotten where I am going. I am not here to sit on an ivory tower and tell you how to be successful, because honestly, I don’t know. I am just here to share the ride. `
One letter at a time,
Sage