I want others to know the peace that comes from knowing that no matter what happens, God is their loving Father who will take care of all their needs. I chose the picture I took at sunset on Galveston Island Beach, Texas, to show God's beauty and so others can feel the calm of the ocean. I wrote the poem during Adoration before our Lord, Jesus and felt him speaking through me. My wish is that this brings hope to at least one patient or caregiver.

The joy of an infant grasping the pinkie. How can you not forget the darkness momentarily, when your finger is wrapped with the tiny hand of a baby?

Everybody has a junk drawer. And your life has junk as well. Look closer in the drawer as well as in your life. Find the love within the chaos.

I wanted to capture my experience as a Parkinson’s patient with all its ups and downs, with its twists and turns, yet also show the beauty in my life.

Life Can Still Be Beautiful is my way of finding light in the darkest of times, choosing resilience, and still searching for beauty and happiness even when the future seems uncertain. I’d like to think this painting can show how we can still find grace in the midst of suffering and how, despite fear, there is still hope.

I hope this serves as a reminder that even in the face of life's darkest moments, there is light to be found. And sometimes, it is through the darkness that we learn to truly appreciate the beauty of life.

To acknowledge the give-and-take of life, giving efforts in situations that, no matter what, we have the will and the drive to survive.

I now use the words “Living with cancer.” One year and six months ago I was dying of cancer. My life fell into a thousand pieces. Things would never be the same. As I pick up the pieces, I realize different doesn’t mean worse, just different. I am grateful I still get the opportunity to make “a beautiful mess.”

It is how life is now in the kitchen after gardening and harvesting including my cane, sitting stool, wagon, boots, gloves, coffee, extra protein, sourdough, water and prescription bottles.

Because I'm a social person, I love being in a group and community with other people. As a hairstylist recovering, I am missing my creative outlet. This is my newest creative outlet and expression.

I want people to feel joy and happiness when they look at this piece. It is an expression of joy and faith in God.

I don't consider myself an artist. As a nurse, I've learned that sometimes you cannot "fix" the patient, and in those moments I feel like I've failed. What keeps me grounded is knowing how much I love nursing – because it allows me to touch people's lives in meaningful ways. These caps remind me of the many patients that I have cared for while doing the work I love. Putting this piece together is a reminder that every heart is unique, and while I am not perfect, I always give my best to help each patient in their journey of healing.

The man in the sun gets angry with mankind because man does not respect the universe.

I want people to experience this art freely and without constraint. Art and love are the human experience.

To some, the weaving in my basket may look to be a mess. To me, it is beautiful. I’m incredibly proud of it! Because of COVID- induced keratoconus, I have low vision, diplopia (seeing double) out of both eyes, and photosensitivity. Making baskets in Manual Skills was a favorite part of the Bosma Vocational Rehabilitation program. Crafting while not being able to focus or see clearly required what the instructor calls 'hand-mind coordination.” This part of learning how to navigate the world with vision impairment was important to my self-acceptance.

No Mud, No Lotus come from the title of a book by the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh on the art of transforming suffering. Without the mud and muck of a pond, there wouldn't be a beautiful flower like the lotus. When we can learn to acknowledge and transform our suffering, we can begin to be present; we can be available to life and happiness. After my unilateral mastectomy with flat reconstruction had healed, I removed the pads from the sides of my seamless bras that I no longer needed so I could continue to wear them when I don’t feel like wearing my prosthetic. 

This piece was another practice work I made while learning the technique of alcohol ink painting. It reminded me of the soft colors and textures of orchids, although that was not my intention when I began this work. That is what I really enjoy about using the inks and alcohol and why I felt this style of painting was such a perfect match for this year's theme. I am often too much of a perfectionist to enjoy what I create, but this medium and theme helped me find the balance between perfection and satisfaction.

As a therapist, I helped others deal with their feelings and emotions. Now as an artist, I express mine through abstract art. As a survivor of childhood physical and sexual abuse, expressing sorrow and angst through paint brings me joy. I cared for my mother through four cancers. She felt like her body was being whittled away and put back together. I told her that her body must be made of gold to survive all of this.

Please see the rosebuds present in your busy world. They are small and hard to notice, but once you do you will not forget the beauty they provide. Try to see the little rose buds in your daily lives. They are there and waiting to be appreciated.

Light. See something beautiful in the midst of tragedy and your journey. That's when you see the light. When you're going through the grit.

From the tears shed by a chronic illness full of sadness, fright, and depression blooms a beautiful blue flower of hope, fight, and determination.

Silent Witness captures the quiet endurance of caregiving through a series of Polaroids of my laptop left in waiting rooms. Each image reflects unseen labor: the hours, the patience, the work of supporting someone you love. In the sterile light of hospitals and clinics, I searched for meaning in stillness, turning loneliness into testament. What begins as absence becomes presence: a record of devotion, of the quiet strength found in waiting, and of how illness reverberates far beyond the patient.

This psychological phenomenon where people perceive their own weaknesses and flaws more negatively than others do began to enter cultural mainstream during the mid-1960s. As the '70s rolled in, Madison Avenue advertising relied on inspiration from popular music lyrics. By the beginning of the 21st century, there was growing national social consciousness of “Your Flaws Are Probably More Attractive Than You Think They Are.”

We live in an age where anyone can see an over-abundance of imagery. Aliens visiting from countless light years away can look at the beauty of 8 billion + souls … with all our flaws.

I want people to experience this art freely and without constraint. Art and love are the human experience.

The world is filled with imperfections. My style of photography brings attention to subject matters that others often overlook.

Though a field of beautiful daisies may appear perfect, the truth is perfection is not attainable.

In 2019 a distracted driver ran a stop sign which caused the accident that left me with a Traumatic Brain Injury. Although I still struggle with perfectionism, with the support of friends, loved ones, and my many “cheerleaders,” I’m able to accept the truth that beauty does not mean perfection more and more every day.

(Both the quote and photo are my own.)

This piece doesn't as much reflect the negative, other than the old, weathered bell on the bottom. It is all about special memories collected over time. The decorative flower charms are from a broken bracelet.

We who live with brain injuries find strength in synergy, facing challenges that others can't see or understand. Yet when we come together, something powerful happens; we share understanding, hope, and resilience. In our circle of support, our stories matter, every small victory is celebrated, and none of us feels alone. Together we remind one another that healing isn't just about recovery, it's about rebuilding identity, finding connection, and creating a community where resilience thrives.

Frame made by Tim Stant, using local hardwoods (American cherry, Indiana hickory). Artists are Marilyn Hart, Ron Hart, Linda McKee, Tim Stant, Ronayé

During the pandemic, the only part seen on a person's face was from the mask up. The real person was not entirely visible.

As we delve into the complexities of light and shadow, both in the physical realm and within ourselves, Tired Feet serves as a reflection of the intimate spaces we inhabit, where the mundane and the profound coexist. I want you to recognize that every moment, no matter how ordinary, carries the potential for deeper meaning and introspection. The act of washing one’s feet, as depicted, symbolizes cleansing and renewal, suggesting that even our most routine actions can be a form of self-care and reflection.

Art therapists are there through it all to hold emotions, celebrate triumphs, and heal the wounded spirit.

This piece is made of my feelings – hope, loss, love, fear, grief, joy, sadness, bliss, confusion, and more. Dark and bright colors, thin and thick lines, shiny bits and tangled webs connecting it all – the beautiful mess within me: courageously looking inside when you have cancer and are still human – when you want to be strong but have no strength left, when gratitude for life and loved ones collides with depression’s black hole. This piece holds the fight to keep going, the weight of wanting to give up, and the messy space in between that whispers pa’lante – tomorrow will come.

It's more of a science experiment than art. You never know what you're going to get. It's a beautiful mess. I think everybody should try making an alcohol ink tile at least once.