The recent student project in my art class was to create a personal miniature pond—a small world of imagination made entirely by hand. Each student began by shaping the base of their pond using aluminum foil. The foil allowed them to freely design organic, flowing forms, from circular garden ponds to irregular natural shapes. Once the base was complete, they covered it with air clay, carefully smoothing and sculpting the surface to resemble real stone and earth textures.

After the structure dried, the students crafted tiny koi fish out of air clay, learning to capture the dynamic movements and graceful curves of these living creatures. This step was closely tied to our semester’s theme--“Drawing Koi Fish”—which focused on observing motion, rhythm, and life in nature. Through this project, students not only painted koi fish on paper but also transformed their drawings into tangible, three-dimensional creations.
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When the koi fish were placed into the pond, we poured a thin layer of resin over them. This final touch created the illusion of clear, shimmering water, completing the scene. To make the project even more magical, students added miniature details such as tiny lights, umbrellas, and potted plants, turning each pond into a dreamlike environment—an artistic reflection of their imagination and inner world.
This project allowed students to explore beyond traditional painting and experiment with mixed media, combining sculpture, painting, and design in one cohesive piece. The process was both challenging and deeply rewarding. Many students remarked that they felt as though they were “building a dream,” not just an art object. Seeing their unique ponds glisten under the light, each containing its own small story and atmosphere, was one of the most inspiring moments of the semester.

Last week, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to go to my SchoolNova class. Just a day before, I had been lying in the emergency room. The inflammation I had been dealing with didn’t improve quickly, and eventually, I had no choice but to go to the ER. Being far from home with few people around to help made the experience even harder. But in a way, that visit became a turning point—it strengthened my determination to take preventive measures and apply for home health care services in advance, so I wouldn’t have to face such situations alone again. Thankfully, one of the hospital staff gave me a helpful hint about this option, noticing that it was my second visit.

As I lay there, I also realized that I needed to stop pushing myself so hard. I watched many different people come and go from the emergency room—each carrying their own story, pain, and worry. It reminded me how vast and complex the world truly is. I was grateful to be discharged safely after receiving IV fluids and undergoing some new tests. Back at home, I rested for a few days, and thanks to the medication and pain relief, I was able to recover enough to return to teaching.

I worried at first whether I would have the energy to conduct my class, but once it began, something inside me changed. The moment I saw my students’ enthusiasm and focus, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. Their curiosity and sincerity always give me strength, no matter how exhausted I feel. The warm smiles and encouragement from parents, too, lifted my spirits.
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It has been a difficult week, but I am slowly regaining my strength. More than anything, I am reminded how precious it is to have meaningful work to return to—to have something that allows me to focus, create, and connect. In moments of illness and recovery alike, that realization feels like a true blessing.

After returning home from the hospital, I spent several days resting and focusing on recovery. During that time, one of my students who takes my online class sent me a heartfelt message, saying how much the lessons had helped her. Her feedback came at just the right moment—it reminded me why I continue to teach, even when life feels heavy.

This student is exceptionally thoughtful and intelligent, with a deep love for art that shines through everything she creates. Despite attending the class virtually, she approaches each project with remarkable sincerity and curiosity. Her work demonstrates both technical growth and genuine emotional expression. Through her, I realized that online learning can be just as powerful and transformative as in-person teaching when both teacher and student are fully engaged.

Seeing her progress week by week has been deeply inspiring. She asks meaningful questions, experiments fearlessly with materials, and often adds her own creative touch to assignments. What moves me most is her ability to express emotion through her artwork—to capture subtle feelings and turn them into visual form. It’s a rare gift, and nurturing that talent has been one of the most rewarding parts of my teaching journey.
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Receiving such positive feedback while I was still recovering gave me renewed strength. It reminded me that teaching is not just about technique or instruction—it’s about connection, encouragement, and shared discovery. Knowing that my lessons can reach students wherever they are, and that art can continue to grow even through a screen, fills me with gratitude. It motivates me to keep improving my classes and to approach every new project with hope and dedication. Moments like these make me realize that even during difficult times, the work I do continues to ripple outward in quiet, meaningful ways.

Today, I finally submitted Our Treehouse to the local library’s community collection. It’s hard to describe how deeply moving this moment feels. Our book will now be part of the shelves, where someone might discover it, hold it in their hands, and feel inspired to create a story of their own.

Looking back, our first meeting was humble and simple. Last year, we gathered with one purpose—to enjoy writing our own stories. Once a month, we met to read what we had written, to share the illustrations we had drawn, and to laugh and reflect together. Slowly, piece by piece, we built something—like a real treehouse, but made of stories, art, and friendship.

Next week, we will hold a small celebration at the library café. It reminds me of the ending of our book, when Sarah, Jack, and their friends finish building their treehouse and sit inside, sharing sodas and snacks in joy. Though our treehouse cannot be seen with the eyes, it stands firmly in our hearts—warm, bright, and strong.

But this treehouse was never just ours. Along the way, we met people who supported our project with genuine warmth. Among them, I want to express my deepest gratitude to Miss Rebecca, whose kindness and professionalism guided us through every step. She embodies the spirit of community and the love of art and literature. Meeting her has truly been a blessing.

And to my beloved Our Treehouse members--Emilia, Freya, and Becca—I want to say thank you. Each of us was busy with work and motherhood, constantly pulled in a dozen directions. Yet, we kept meeting, month after month, no matter how tired we were. When it felt like there was no room left for dreaming, we still showed up—and that was how the dream became real.

At times, we shared a quiet fear: that our children might grow up without ever seeing a truly handmade story. In a future where books and pictures could all be generated by artificial intelligence, would they forget what it feels like to read something made by human hands? That thought chilled us. So we decided—we would write and draw ourselves, however imperfectly, and show our children that stories made by love still matter.

Our children watched us create. They saw their mothers writing, drawing, revising, and cheering one another on. Maybe that’s why they, too, began to love storytelling. They started inventing their own characters, writing their own tales, drawing their own little worlds. Watching that, I became even more convinced of the power of storytelling—it connects people, bridges generations, and heals hearts.

This project will not end with one book. Our treehouse will keep growing through second and third volumes, and through the creative voices of new contributors. I hope more groups like ours will form in neighborhoods everywhere—people who love stories, art, and the shared act of making something beautiful together.

Today, however, another message arrived. It was from a gallery where I have exhibited my paintings before—a place once known for full audiences and strong sales. This year, only one painting sold. The economy is slow; people hesitate to open their wallets. Artists and writers alike are struggling. But I believe this is precisely when we must hold onto hope and continue creating warmth in the world.
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Our Treehouse is not just a book. It is a symbol of time shared, hearts connected, and courage sustained. And so today, quietly but with deep pride, I celebrate this simple truth: our treehouse has finally reached the library.

Through this project, I learned the true power of recording. Even the smallest moments of everyday life can become stories when written down, and those stories can, in turn, become someone’s comfort. If something we created with our own hands can gently warm another person’s day, then that, I believe, is the greatest reward of creation.

We will continue to write new stories. As the seasons change, new ideas will bloom, and new books will be born. I sometimes imagine a small bookshelf in the library labeled “Moms’ Playground Collection,” filled with the storybooks created by mothers like us. That shelf would not simply represent publication—it would stand as a testament to love, courage, and connection.
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When that day comes, I want to say this: “What we made was not just a book. We left a trace of warmth in the world.”

We are thrilled to share some wonderful news--Our Treehouse, the first book from the Moms’ Playground Book Club, has been officially added to the Emma Clark Library’s Local Focus Collection. This program highlights local authors and illustrators whose creative work reflects the spirit and life of the Three Village community. Seeing our story placed among works that celebrate imagination, family, and collaboration is both humbling and deeply meaningful.

The journey of Our Treehouse began during the pandemic, when two mothers, Anna Koh and Emilia Zielinska-Bien, met at a playground in Stony Brook. In a time when distance and uncertainty defined daily life, the simple act of gathering outdoors with their children became a seed of inspiration. They discovered a shared love for storytelling—Anna through her watercolor illustrations and Emilia through her words. Together, they began dreaming about how to transform their everyday moments of play, imagination, and community into something lasting.

That dream grew into the Moms’ Playground Book Club, a creative circle that welcomes local parents and children to tell stories together. Joined by Freja and Becca, Anna and Emilia envisioned the club as a place where art and storytelling could bridge families, cultures, and generations. Their mission is not only to make books but to create shared memories—stories that reflect the voices, dreams, and colors of the Three Village community.

Our Treehouse became the first fruit of this collaboration. Written by Emilia and illustrated by Anna, the book tells a story about friendship, imagination, and the sense of belonging that every child and family seeks. The process was deeply personal: Emilia drew inspiration from her family life on Long Island and her love of nature, while Anna translated that warmth and sincerity into soft, vibrant watercolor images. Every page carries their shared belief that creativity is a form of connection—a way to heal, to dream, and to bring people together.

Being part of the Local Focus Collection is more than just a milestone; it’s an affirmation of what community art can be. The Emma Clark Library has long been a space where local stories find their home, and now Our Treehouse will sit on its shelves as a reminder that creativity often begins in the simplest places—a park bench, a child’s drawing, or a conversation between neighbors.

Through the Moms’ Playground Book Club, Anna and Emilia hope to continue this journey. Their vision is to create a series of books born from collaboration, each one carrying a piece of the community’s heart. Just as tree branches grow in different directions yet remain connected to one trunk, every story they share will celebrate unity through diversity, imagination, and love.

For families in the Three Village area, Our Treehouse stands as an invitation—to read together, to create together, and to discover the power of storytelling within their own homes. We are grateful to the Emma Clark Library for recognizing this project and for giving local voices a space to be heard and cherished.
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You can now find Our Treehouse in the Local Focus section of the library. May it inspire more families to climb their own “treehouse” of creativity and discover how stories can bring us all a little closer.

In my recent art classes, both at my private studio and at SchoolNova, I introduced air clay as a new medium — and the results have been nothing short of inspiring. Instead of limiting our work to traditional painting, I encouraged students to think beyond the flat surface, to imagine how their two-dimensional artworks could come alive through texture, volume, and playful experimentation. The assignment was simple yet deeply imaginative: “Create your own pond.” The students could fill it with anything they dreamed of — lotus flowers, koi fish, frogs, or creatures that existed only in their imagination.

What unfolded was a table full of colorful, whimsical ponds. Some were peaceful, with floating lily pads and delicate flowers sculpted from clay; others were bursting with movement — a diving fish, a frog mid-leap, or an unexpected creature lounging on a lily pad. Each child’s creation told a unique story, shaped by their personality and sense of wonder. The use of air clay added a tactile and three-dimensional quality that immediately captured their curiosity. Children love working with materials they can mold and shape. The moment they realized they could bring their painted ponds to life by adding clay sculptures, their engagement deepened. The classroom filled with quiet excitement — the sound of concentration, laughter, and the satisfaction of creation.

As an art educator, I have long believed in the importance of exploring mixed media. Art should not be confined to one medium or technique. When students are exposed to a variety of materials — from paint and collage to clay, wire, or even recycled items — they learn to see creative possibilities everywhere. The boundary between painting and sculpture dissolves, and they begin to understand that art is not about following rules but about discovery. This flexibility nurtures creative confidence: the ability to take risks, problem-solve, and transform ideas into tangible form.

Introducing air clay turned out to be one of the best decisions this semester. It bridged the gap between drawing and sculpture, allowing even hesitant students to engage more fully. Some who were less confident in their drawing found freedom in molding shapes with their hands; others integrated the two, painting backgrounds before placing their clay creations on top, discovering balance, contrast, and composition in new ways. The activity also strengthened fine motor skills and spatial awareness — all while fostering collaboration and joy.

What I loved most was seeing how the students’ imaginations expanded once they realized that art doesn’t have to be limited to paper and paint. They began to ask questions like, “Can I make clouds that pop out?” or “What if my frog jumps off the page?” These questions show a mindset shift: they were no longer simply following instructions but taking ownership of their creative process. Watching them explore, invent, and laugh together reminded me why art education matters so much.
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In the end, the “pond project” became more than an art lesson — it was a celebration of creative freedom. By combining air clay with painting, the students not only built miniature worlds but also learned an invaluable artistic truth: that imagination has no limits when we are willing to experiment. This experience reaffirmed for me that encouraging children to blend materials and think across boundaries is one of the most powerful ways to help them grow as artists — and as thinkers.

These days, we live in an era of stock market frenzy. Investing in stocks has come to seem like a kind of money-printing machine. Stories abound of people buying homes or retiring early thanks to their stock gains. Society, in turn, glorifies these success stories, creating the impression that leaving money idle in a bank account is foolish. From children to the elderly, everyone seems to be studying the stock market.

Personally, I view this phenomenon with some unease. Two people close to me lost nearly all of their life savings in this whirlwind. I remember their early excitement — the sparkle in their eyes when they first started making money, the energy in their voices. If their stories had continued upward, I might not still feel this ache whenever I think of them.

At one point, their earnings far exceeded their monthly salaries. Their trading profits seemed effortless compared to the stress of following a boss’s orders at work. Eventually, they quit their jobs entirely and devoted themselves to watching market graphs, day and night. For a while, everything went well. The stock market, after all, rewards intuition and study — and with a bit of both, one might imagine becoming the next Warren Buffett.

But I’ve come to see that the stock market mirrors life itself: when something blooms, we must prepare for it to wither. Unfortunately, many people forget this truth. I especially hope that those who are timid by nature, or who feel anxious at the thought of even small losses, will avoid entering the market. They are the ones who tend to fail.

If, however, a person is bold — a natural risk-taker with an entrepreneurial spirit, capable of laughing even after a loss — then perhaps the market is for them. Trading provides a rush of dopamine; it can feel thrilling, even addictive. But for the cautious, or for those without spare funds, the market can be devastating.

After seeing painful examples around me, I once wrote a children’s story with my husband to teach our students about the dangers of speculative markets. That’s how deeply I felt the need for awareness. I, too, have brushed against the allure of sudden fortune.

Many years ago, when Bitcoin was still an obscure experiment, a guest visited our home — an entrepreneur involved in cryptocurrency. He suggested that I sell my paintings for Bitcoin, even offering to buy one if I accepted it as payment. If I had sold just one painting that way, today it would be worth a fortune. But missing that chance taught me something essential: luck plays a far greater role in such ventures than most people admit.

So now, when I see others chasing “the next big thing,” I no longer feel envy. If someone believes they are lucky, I won’t stop them from taking the gamble. But relying on luck alone is dangerous. Watching others fail made me appreciate the quiet dignity of labor — of earning slowly, through steady work.

That realization led me away from trading and toward writing, blogging, and publishing. These pursuits are slow. They offer no instant riches. But unlike the stock market’s roller coaster, they move forward like a snail on a leaf — slow, steady, and irreversible. Every step builds upon the last.

Recently, I replaced the roof of my old house. It took nearly ten workers climbing up and down ladders, carrying heavy wooden boards in the wind. Watching them, I thought: what if all these hardworking people abandoned their crafts to chase quick profits in the stock market? What would happen to the beauty and stability of our world?

If my own art classes became inconvenient because my investments made me rich, what kind of teacher would I become? Society still needs people who work with their hands, who show up, who build things brick by brick. Stock trading also consumes time and energy — but it’s energy spent entirely for oneself. It doesn’t build a community, nor does it nurture others.

I’ve seen fortunes vanish in a few careless clicks — years of savings gone, leaving behind long shadows of regret. I can’t help wondering: if all that time had been spent on real work, wouldn’t life have grown richer, in more meaningful ways? Labor, experience, and the act of creating something together — these are worth more than any instant fortune.
Still, I do believe in another kind of stock — investing in companies you admire, whose products genuinely make life better. Investing not out of greed, but out of faith in progress, in history. But when the only goal is to get rich, I have rarely seen it end well.

Strangely, I no longer regret missing that Bitcoin opportunity. If I had become rich back then, I might have stopped painting. I might not have started my blog or shared these reflections with you. I would probably be staring at market charts instead of writing this essay.
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So perhaps what I once thought was a missed opportunity was, in truth, a blessing. It led me to a quieter, more authentic path — one that values creation over speculation, patience over greed, and meaningful work over fleeting luck.
Everyone has their own story, and perhaps this is mine: a reminder that even in an age obsessed with quick riches, there is still beauty in slow growth.

The world of art is no different. Here, too, there are artists who long to become famous overnight — and with that longing come temptations that can sometimes turn into traps. What appears to be a legitimate open call may later reveal itself as a scheme that offers “great opportunities” in exchange for a large sum of money. In a fair system, real opportunities should not demand such payments. A healthy art world should be built on fairness — where time, effort, and sincerity are rewarded naturally when the work itself is ready.

However, when impatience, comparison, and greed arise, we begin to look for shortcuts. That’s when artists start neglecting the daily discipline required for true growth. Instead of listening to their inner voice, they begin checking trends and popularity as if staring at a stock chart. In doing so, they lose the ability to create art that is genuine — art that carries the message their soul wishes to express.

For artists who truly wish to pursue authentic art, it is essential to remain steadfast, almost like a monk — not swayed by flattery or temptation. One must walk their path quietly and faithfully, believing in what feels true. Within that perseverance lies both real joy and mastery. That strength cannot be taken away by anyone; it belongs solely to the artist.

I myself once nearly fell into such a trap, early in my art career. I had an argument with a certain director, and thankfully, I did not fall for the deception. The director told me, “Even if you think my way is wrong, I know it is. But my business will still prosper, because there are many artists who crave this kind of success.” I have never forgotten those words.

Indeed, when I later visited her website, I saw countless glowing reviews from artists. But I had challenged her not because of her confidence, but because her so-called “juried” process was not truly juried at all. Everyone who submitted was told they were “amazing artists” and then invited to have their works published in her books — for a fee of several hundred or even several thousand dollars per page.
These schemes resemble real galleries and publishers in appearance, but they begin with deception. And because of that, the artists who participate — no matter how talented — inevitably suffer damage to their reputation. It is best never to take that road in the first place.

Yet new artists are often desperate. They are thirsty for opportunity. Without an established record, they are eager to build one — by any means. So when someone offers to include their works and biographies in a luxurious hardcover art book, or promises to hold an exhibition in a glamorous Las Vegas hotel, it sounds irresistible. It looks like a few precious lines they could finally add to their résumé. And like moths drawn to light, they fly toward it — unaware that it leads them away from their true path.

Once they get a taste for that kind of shortcut, it becomes hard to stop. The slow, daily work of practice, reflection, research, and growth begins to feel meaningless — as meaningless as staring at a market graph. Meanwhile, those who exploit artists’ desperation — vanity galleries, fake publishers, and art “competitions” — continue to multiply. Even if you fall victim, there is often nowhere to turn. Just as that director said, such businesses thrive precisely because of artists’ longing and vulnerability.
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But artists themselves struggle immensely. They are sincere, hopeful, and often financially stretched. That is why I write everything here on this blog — to document my journey of 14 years as an artist: the struggles, the failures, the growth, and the small but genuine joys that keep me going. I hope that by sharing these experiences, even one click, one reader, might find some guidance or comfort. Because I, too, have learned so much from bloggers who spoke from the same kind of honesty and sincerity.

I once heard something deeply discouraging from a director at an art university. He told me that he had gone into education because it was too difficult to survive as an artist. Listening to him, I couldn’t help but feel disheartened. His words made me wonder, Why pursue art at all, if this is what the industry is like?

I felt genuinely sorry for the students studying under him — students who were working so hard, unaware that their own “captain” had already given up hope for the ship. It felt like watching a vessel whose leader secretly wished it would sink, its oars moving half-heartedly, while the young rowers trusted their fate to a hopeless course.

Of course, I also understand reality. It is extremely difficult to make a living as an artist. Simply surviving in this field can feel like a miracle. The public rarely celebrates art the way people imagine. Instead, attention flows toward stocks, sports, politics, entertainment, beauty, fashion, and parenting.

The same is true in blogging. When I first started my art-themed blog, I was afraid. It felt like pitching a tent in the middle of an empty field, trying to build a house where no one else wanted to live. But after writing day after day for years, meeting readers and exchanging stories, I’ve come to realize something important: If I stop, who will keep this space alive? Probably no one. So I decided to continue — sincerely and steadily — just to see what might happen.
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Even if nothing comes of it, that’s okay. I’ll just keep going, slowly, like a snail. Because if everyone runs toward the stock market, who will fix the roofs? Someone must keep working, quietly and faithfully.
So now, when I recall the discouraging words I’ve heard throughout my career, I choose to treat them not as wounds but as lessons. They remind me to stay humble, to keep moving, and to keep creating — no matter how small each step may seem.

And for the young artists and students who feel disheartened and believe there is no future, I must keep going — gritting my teeth, clearing the path like a farmer with a sickle, cutting through the overgrown grass to make a way forward.

One day, I will show them. Passion moves slowly, but it moves life itself. It builds influence, it gathers people, and in time, it creates community.
We are all descendants of those ancient ancestors who painted together on the walls of caves. Art has always been our language — our way of being human. We cannot live apart from it, and deep down, we all know this truth.
As technology advances, art must never retreat. It must remain our reminder of what it means to feel, to connect, and to create together.