In this week’s spread, you can tell I’ve been thinking about doorways.
Not just the physical kind, though I did draw one, but the idea of a doorway. A threshold. That place where you are no longer quite where you were, but not yet fully where you’re going. That in-between space feels a lot like becoming to me, unfinished, open, quietly alive.
In my journal this week, I found myself drawing a door and surrounding it with ivy studies. English ivy. Hedera helix. I didn’t plan it. I rarely do. I sat down with my sketchbook and stayed there long enough for an image to begin taking shape. Ivy appeared first, then the suggestion of a door, then the slow realization that the page was becoming a place.
The door showed up as more than just an object. It started to feel like a symbol of transition, of possibility, of the unknown. A doorway is an invitation, but it’s also a pause. You don’t rush through a doorway. You notice where you are. You notice what you’re carrying. You notice the light, or the shadow, or both.
The ivy feels like the perfect companion to that idea. It climbs. It adapts. It finds its way even when the surface is rough or uncertain. It doesn’t force its growth; it just keeps going, slowly, steadily, faithfully.
So this spread feels like a small marker for me, a reminder that I’m in a season of thresholds. Of showing up. Of paying attention. Of letting growth be quiet, a little wild, and a little imperfect. One door. Some ivy. A page full of notes and sketches.
And the simple, faithful work of becoming, one step at a time.
Ivy Ivy climbs where roots once knew doubt.
Soft hands finding stone, light.
She doesn’t rush, she remembers how to grow,
holding fast even in shade.
Quiet, faithful,
becoming green again.
