This summer, I’m dedicating time to drawing studies that will serve as teaching materials for my upcoming classes. As I prepare to teach students the fundamentals of observational drawing, I’m reminded of how essential this practice is—not just for skill development, but as a foundation for all forms of visual expression. Drawing is not simply about creating a likeness; it’s about learning how to truly see. Through drawing, we train our eyes to notice structure, light, shadow, texture, and form. It sharpens our perception and deepens our sensitivity—not only as artists, but as observers of the world.

To me, practicing drawing is like building the pillars of a house. While they may not be the most visible part of the structure, they are absolutely critical. In the same way, drawing supports all other mediums—whether watercolor, acrylic, oil, or digital. If you can capture an object’s form and feeling with just a pencil, there is no medium in which you cannot express it. Once you understand the principles of structure and value through drawing, every other medium becomes a choice—not a crutch.

This body of work I’m building over the summer is more than just a collection of sketches. It’s a reflection of my teaching philosophy and my belief that strong foundations lead to creative freedom. These drawings will become resources in the classroom—tools to guide students as they learn how to observe, simplify, and express. I want them to understand that behind every great artwork is not only talent, but a solid grasp of fundamentals.
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Ultimately, I believe that when students gain confidence in their drawing, they become more courageous and creative. They stop relying on superficial decoration and start communicating through form and structure. My goal is to help them reach that point—not by rushing the process, but by grounding them in the timeless practice of drawing, one pencil stroke at a time.

​This summer, I am thrilled to share some wonderful news: Yebon, a deeply talented student I have known for many years, is preparing to publish her very first book on Amazon. It is a joy and privilege to witness this milestone, and I am honored to be part of the final editing process as her mentor and supporter.

​My memories with Yebon stretch far back to when she was a young child. Even then, it was clear that she had a vivid imagination and a deep love for drawing and storytelling. I recall how, during our early art classes, she would often create whimsical characters and dreamlike scenes, always accompanied by a thoughtful narrative. Her ability to translate her imagination onto paper was remarkable.

Now a rising senior in high school, Yebon has transformed that early spark into something truly profound. Her latest creation is a beautifully illustrated children’s book that combines her passion for biology and marine life with her storytelling skills. Inspired by the sea slug Elysia chlorotica, a fascinating creature that uses photosynthesis to survive, Yebon researched scientific papers, gathered data, and thoughtfully crafted an engaging story around this topic. Her illustrations are delicate and expressive, perfectly capturing both the charm and scientific wonder of the creature.

What sets Yebon apart is her commitment to meaningful storytelling. She doesn’t simply aim to entertain—she seeks to educate, inspire, and convey wonder. Her book shows maturity beyond her years and reflects her genuine curiosity and diligence. It is this thoughtful blend of art and science, creativity and academic rigor, that makes her work so compelling and relevant in today’s world.

I believe that her project is not only a personal achievement but also a testament to her readiness for college-level work. It exemplifies independent research, visual literacy, and the ability to communicate complex ideas in accessible and creative ways. These qualities will undoubtedly serve her well in any academic setting.
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As I finalize the edits on this special book, I feel confident that Yebon’s story will not only touch readers but also reflect the kind of student she is—dedicated, imaginative, and intellectually engaged. I am excited for what the future holds for her, and I have no doubt that this is only the beginning of her publishing journey.

Just a few days ago, I watched a summer musical performance titled "This Is Me." As I sat in the audience, watching the children sing and dance with such joy and confidence, my mind wandered back to the very first time we discovered this camp.
My child was still in kindergarten when one day, she came home holding a small brochure from school in her tiny hands.

She looked up at me and said, “Mom, I really want to do this.”

The brochure featured children singing under the lights, full of energy and smiles. Her eyes sparkled with longing, and I could tell this meant something to her. That summer, we signed up for the camp—and we’ve never looked back.

Since then, my child has never missed a single year.
Every summer, she joins the musical program, learning new songs, practicing choreography, and growing not only in skill but in confidence.
She once stood nervously in the back row, barely whispering the lyrics, and now she sings proudly alongside older students, her voice blending into harmony with theirs.

Watching her grow on that stage feels like watching a flower slowly bloom—softly, steadily, beautifully.
As someone who also loves musicals and the performing arts, I find myself looking forward to summer just as much as she does.
It’s not just about the final performance.
It’s about watching children discover what it means to express themselves, to shine, to stand tall in front of others and say, “This is me.”
Every time I watch these performances, I’m reminded of how precious and brilliant talent can be—especially when it’s nurtured with love.
I hope the children on that stage know how incredible they are.

I hope they realize how much joy and beauty they bring just by being themselves.
To sing, to speak, to step onto a stage and be fully present—that is a true gift, one that not everyone gets to experience, and I hope they never take it for granted.
After every show, I leave the theater full of gratitude.
Grateful that this opportunity exists.
Grateful that my child gets to participate.
Grateful that I get to witness it all.
It was a truly wonderful performance—one I won’t forget.
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And more than anything, I hope my child and every other child who stood on that stage walks away knowing:
“This is me—and I am enough.”

Not long ago, I spent nearly two days fending off a wave of spam bot attacks on my blog.
In the early hours of the morning, I noticed the same spam comments repeatedly appearing on one of my posts. I deleted them every time, but I knew it must have been effortless for the bot to repost—over and over again in the exact same spot.
So I decided to do something more direct.
I posted a clear notice at the top of the blog:
"Any inappropriate or spam content will be deleted immediately. "
That message wasn’t just a warning. It was a way of letting the spammers—and readers—know that this space is actively managed.
And interestingly, after that, the spam stopped.

The experience made me think.
Running a blog isn't just about writing and posting content.
It's also about guarding and tending to the space, much like taking care of a home.
Think about it. If you clean every day, fix things as they break, and keep your home bright and welcoming, it becomes a place where people feel safe and calm.
But if you leave broken windows unrepaired, trash piling up in corners, and cobwebs gathering dust, what happens?
Soon, insects move in.
It’s no longer seen as a cared-for space—it’s seen as abandoned.
The same applies to blogs.
Neglected posts, unmoderated comments, and outdated information send a message:
"No one’s watching. No one cares."
But when we check in regularly, update content, manage spam, and respond to changes—such as shifts in Google AdSense policies—we're doing more than upkeep.
We’re showing up for our work.

I didn’t always think this way.
In the beginning, I believed blogging was just about writing what I wanted and hitting “publish.”
But over time, I realized that creating content is only part of the story.
Maintaining, refining, and protecting that content—that’s the rest of the journey.
Now, I’m not as overwhelmed by changing ad policies or technical issues.
I've learned how to read the signals, adjust my strategy, and protect my site.
I’ve come to see blogging not just as a hobby or side project—but as a living space that deserves attention and care.

People often ask me, “Is it too late to start a blog now?”
And my answer is simple:
“No. In fact, now is a perfect time.”
Sure, you’ll see stories about someone who got lucky—one viral post, one hit video, one quick success.
But those are rare exceptions.
Most of us grow slowly, quietly, and steadily.
And truthfully, what we gain through luck is never fully ours.
But what we gain through daily effort and learning—that becomes our foundation.
That becomes something no one can take away.

I’ve made peace with the fact that blogging is a craft.
It takes time, presence, attention, and energy.
And I've come to love it.
What once felt like a random side project has become something much more meaningful:
a way of organizing my thoughts, sharing my journey, and tending to a space that reflects my values.
At this stage in my life—past the age of 50—I find joy in the fact that I still have so much to learn.
And for those who are considering a new chapter, I want to say this sincerely:
“Start a blog. Let it be your space to create, learn, and grow.
It might just become the most honest expression of who you are.”

Nature has always offered us wonder.
The shimmering sunlight on the water, the quiet elegance of swans and ducks gliding across the surface — the lake I used to visit was a place of stillness and peace, like time had paused just long enough for us to breathe differently.
I loved showing this place to visiting friends. For a moment, we all fell silent and simply watched.
But nature doesn't always wear a gentle face.
With relentless heat waves, floods, earthquakes, and tornadoes becoming more frequent, I’m reminded of nature’s other side — powerful, unpredictable, and sometimes terrifying.
The lake I once cherished was recently swept away by torrential rains.
All that beauty, gone in an instant.
And just like that, a place I had turned to for serenity became part of a painful realization: nothing lasts, and beauty is fragile.
Perhaps that’s why I feel more drawn to painting these days.
There’s a stronger urge than ever to capture what’s beautiful while it’s still here.
To express the things that can’t be explained.
On days when the heat outside is too intense to venture far, I stay indoors with quiet gratitude — painting, reading, cooking meals with my family. These simple moments bring the deepest joy.
Recently, I looked back through some old photos — images of that lake, the birds, the way the sunlight danced across the ripples.
I’m thankful I captured them, because memory can distort.
Once something is lost or altered, it becomes harder and harder to return to how it once felt.
Relationships are like that, too.
I’ve been hurt before by people who cared only about themselves.
But I’m no longer someone who stays. I now recognize the signs and step away early.
If someone sees me as no longer "useful," that’s my cue to leave — not because I’m bitter, but because I now understand my worth.
I didn’t always know this.
I used to be endlessly patient, trying to understand and forgive, even when I wasn’t understood myself.
But some people don’t value shared memories.
They resent what they can’t control. They feel no true empathy — only frustration over what they couldn’t use.
I didn’t want much — only to walk together.
To have a conversation, to sort things out.
But in the end, I was the only one listening.
Years have passed, and now I return to nature.
It, too, seems to move in one direction, but I no longer think it flows blindly.
There is a quiet conversation happening.
We just haven’t been listening.
In that stillness, I hear it now.
A message:
“Remember what was beautiful.”
“Don’t destroy. Listen. Protect.”
I don’t want to forget.
I want to paint more, remember more, preserve more.
I want to keep listening — to nature, to others, to myself.