How a Place Finds Its Way Into Your Heart

I've been thinking a lot lately about why certain places stay with us. Not the famous ones. Not the ones everyone dreams of visiting.

The little ones. The places that quietly sneak into your heart without asking permission.

If you asked me a few years ago whether I'd ever paint an entire series inspired by one week in Mexico, I probably would have laughed.

And yet... here we are.

Funny enough, I think the story actually started a few months before I set foot in Mexico.

I remember discovering the joyful landscapes of artist Maru Goda and being completely captivated by them. They weren't trying to document every leaf or every building exactly as it looked. They captured something much more interesting. They captured how a place felt. Taking one of her online classes planted a seed in my heart. 

Fast forward to this year, having been a big fan of the lovely artist and teacher Maria Grossbaum who inspired me to start painting a few years ago, I found myself packing my suitcase for one of her retreats in Mexico.

I was excited. I was also convinced I was about to spend a week being "the little weirdo in the corner."

I'd already found the courage to paint. Meeting new people was a different kind of bravery. I've always been much better at making friends with the resident dog than introducing myself to a room full of strangers.

Thankfully, I couldn't have been more wrong.

The very first thing I remember is Maria's long warm hug. You know those hugs that somehow tell you everything is going to be okay? It was one of those. Looking back, I think that hug quietly set the tone for the entire week.

Our home was Quinta Salamandra.

It didn't take long before it stopped feeling like a retreat and started feeling like... well... home.

Not because of anything grand. Because of all the wonderfully ordinary little things. 

Galia, the sweet resident dog, somehow always knew exactly where to find me. Animals always do.

The hammocks that gently convinced us that afternoon naps were probably an important part of the creative process.

Marcela's bicycle leaning against the courtyard wall. Isn't it funny what our hearts decide to remember? Out of everything that beautiful place had to offer...it's the bicycle. Every time I walked past it, my heart smiled

And then there was Chapatina, the resident cat. Beautiful? Absolutely. The sign at Quinta Salamandra read: "The cat is beautiful... but scratches." The sign was not exaggerating.

One afternoon we visited a beach with the most beautiful little cenote tucked away in one corner.

Georgia floated peacefully in the crystal-clear water while Rosie sat nearby, completely absorbed in her painting.

Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. Nobody needed to be. Looking back, I think that's why I love that memory so much. For a little while, the world stopped asking anything of us.

We simply floated, talked, laughed, breathed.

That afternoon eventually became Cenote Bliss. Whenever I look at that painting, I remember what it felt like to slow down enough to notice how happy I already was.

Then there was the studio.

Every morning we'd gather around our tables, ready to create, wander around admiring each other's work, offer encouragement, and laugh far more than any serious art retreat probably should.

Somewhere along the way, one beautiful ultramarine blue paint earned a new name.

Magic Blue.

If a painting wasn't quite working, someone would inevitably smile and say, "Needs a little Magic Blue." And somehow, hearing those words always made us smile. By the end of the week, Magic Blue had become so much more than a colour. It had become one of those little memories that only makes sense to the people who were there.

When Maria gave each of us our own little bottle of ultramarine blue to take home, it felt like she was sending us home with a piece of the week itself. Mine still lives in my studio. I don't think I'll ever look at it without smiling.

Of course, every unforgettable week deserves one completely ridiculous story. Ours involved a vulture. Chased by Chapatina, it flew straight into the studio, landed on Rosie's painting, threw up... and flew away as though this sort of thing happened every day.

Poor Rosie.

Poor painting.

To this day, one sentence still makes us laugh: "What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico."

That room eventually became my third painting: Paint, Laughter, and Magic Blue.

Looking back now, I realize I didn't come home with souvenirs. I came home with stories.Together, Quinta Salamandra, Cenote Bliss, and Paint, Laughter, and Magic Blue
became the beginning of my Happy Places series.

Each one is a love letter to a place that quietly held a piece of my healing. 

I have a feeling the story is only just beginning. Every now and then, another place quietly tugs at my heart and asks to be painted. When it does, you'll find it here, alongside the others. I hope you'll stop by once in a while, see what's new, and perhaps discover a happy place that reminds you of one of your own.