Letting Things Take Their Time

“Listening to Daffodils” in-progress painting by Natalie Eve Marquis

Lately I’ve been listening more closely—to my paintings, to my pace, to what wants space rather than urgency.

When I asked myself what my paintings might be saying mid-process, not at the end, the answer surprised me. They weren’t asking for more effort or cleverness. They were simply saying:

Thank you for showing up. Thank you for spending time with me. Thank you for not rushing me. Thank you for letting me evolve at my own pace.

That gratitude felt mutual.

This winter, I’ve been quietly protecting something I don’t always defend well: spaciousness—and a bit more privacy.
More room in my days.
More time to reflect.
More time for the work to develop without being hurried toward an outcome.

Recently, while playing with a “blind spot” prompt, a phrase landed that caused an unexpected inner ping: depth over reach. It was meant practically, but the word depth lingered. It’s not one I usually choose—yet I could sense it had something to tell me.

At the start of the year, I couldn’t settle on a guiding word. I tried. Nothing fit. But now I know what it is.

Depth.

This year, I want to stay with ideas longer.
Explore techniques—like soft edges—from every angle.
Quiet the voices that insist on speed and constant novelty.

I bought into that hype for years, and even thrived on it. But as much as I naturally think and move quickly (hello, Gemini energy), I’m in a season of lingering—of letting meaning unfold instead of chasing it. Of asking not what’s next, but what’s already here that I haven’t fully explored?

Alongside this shift, something curious has been happening. Deer have been appearing with unusual frequency this winter—first one, then another, and now a small family of four. I can’t help but notice that the more I honor my pull toward quiet, solitary time, the more they seem to show up. My energy softens. The pace eases. And there they are.

I find this encouraging.

It feels like confirmation that I’m grounded, attentive, and on the right path for me—allowing space for seedlings that may be buried beneath the noise of my daily life. Quiet things that don’t rush boldly into the world, but instead need gentleness, patience, and time to feel safe enough to emerge.

Some things don’t arrive with fanfare.
They come tentatively.
Unfold quietly.
Asking only for time and care

This feels like that kind of season.