“Our Treehouse” – A Community-Built Dream Begins to Shine

Last year, I formed a creative circle called Mom’s Playground, a group of artists and mothers who wished to keep their artistic dreams alive while raising children. It was a space where we could support each other, exchange ideas, and challenge ourselves to continue creating.

From this circle, our very first collaborative project was born: the children’s picture book Our Treehouse.

Since its publication, the book has been warmly received. And now, I am incredibly proud to share that the original paintings from Our Treehouse are being exhibited for the entire month of November at Emma S. Clark Memorial Library. Even more meaningful is the fact that the book has officially been selected for the library’s Children’s Local Focus Collection, a curated group that highlights the work of creators from the community.
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When I heard the news, it felt as if a beam of sunlight had reached our small but heartfelt Treehouse, lighting it up from within.

The Moment When Words Became Paintings
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Working on Our Treehouse opened a new door for me. I discovered that when a story is written with genuine imagination, it becomes almost effortless for the illustrator’s brush to find its path.

The author of this book, Emilia Zielinska-Bien, has a unique gift: her writing is vivid, visual, and deeply resonant. Each sentence paints a scene, and each paragraph carries a quiet emotional rhythm. Her writing is not loud or sensational. It does not rush like a video game or glow with fast-paced excitement. Instead, it offers stillness, reflection, and a steady sense of wonder—qualities that stay with a reader long after the pages close.
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As I read through her manuscript, I found myself naturally sketching. The images appeared in my mind as clearly as though they had always been there. Through this process, I learned that creating art is not a solitary act; it is the building of a shared dream—much like constructing an actual treehouse, one wooden plank at a time.

A Treehouse Built Together
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A treehouse is a symbol of collaboration. Children gather materials, offer ideas, and help each other until a special shared space finally takes shape.
Our book was made in exactly the same spirit.

Every illustration, every scene, every small detail was built from a combination of our perspectives, strengths, and imaginations. We supported each other whenever we felt unsure, we filled in each other’s gaps, and we celebrated every small success. Eventually, the Treehouse we built became more than a setting in a story—it became a real creative home where future dreams could grow.
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I want to express my deepest gratitude to Emilia. Her vision is rooted in teaching children about cooperation, kindness, and the joy of creating something together. She believes that inner values—though invisible—can be built, strengthened, and cherished just like the beams and railings of a treehouse.
Through this process, she has shown us that new Treehouses, both literal and metaphorical, are always possible.

The Library That Made Our Project Shine
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Although this exhibition is part of the library’s annual program for local artists, our project received exceptional care and attention thanks to Rebecca, the library’s enthusiastic and dedicated curator.

Her support has been invaluable. She approached our work with respect and genuine excitement, treating it not just as artwork, but as a meaningful community story. Meeting her has been a stroke of luck, and I am grateful that she helped our Treehouse shine even brighter.
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Libraries are often described as homes for stories. But in this moment, it felt like the library became a home for our story too.

A Display That Sparks New Dreams

​This exhibition has become more than a simple display of original paintings.

It is an invitation.
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Children who stop by may imagine their own Treehouse. Adults might rediscover forgotten dreams or a childhood memory long tucked away. As visitors walk past the framed paintings, I hope they feel a quiet inspiration—something gentle, yet strong enough to stir the imagination.
As long as this exhibition continues through the month of November, I hope our dream reaches someone who needs a place to rest, dream, or begin creating again. And maybe, inside this shared Treehouse, someone will start building the next story that will touch a child’s heart.

Our Treehouse is not the end of a project.
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It is the beginning—the first room of a much larger house of creativity, built with community and love.
And from here, I will continue painting, writing, and preparing the next dream.


​Our Treehouse is available for purchase on Amazon, where you can easily view details and order a copy.
The “Read Sample” feature allows you to preview the book’s artwork and storytelling before buying.
Worldwide shipping is available, and Prime delivery offers a fast and convenient option for many regions.

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.

The world feels unbearably cold sometimes. But can’t we choose to live warmly, even if it means losing a little? We get hurt and disappointed by people, but can we learn again to understand and love them? Why must we call art “unprofitable” or measure everything in money? Can’t we simply try to be warm again? If we could, wouldn’t the world become a little different?

In the past few days, as the temperature suddenly dropped, my heart felt just as cold. The world keeps telling us that life is a competition—that if you’re not elite, you’re a loser. People build their own cartels and make others feel like outsiders. It’s such a harsh world for the weak and powerless, with nowhere to turn for comfort. And yet, the world God created is dazzling, beautiful, and warm. Art is the same. Every day, artists create the most beautiful and gentle things in this world. But the world we live in feels so cold, so devoid of warmth, that at times it feels suffocating.

I understand. I feel the same. After facing betrayal, hardship, or the storms of life, the heart closes like an automatic door, refusing to open easily again. Even when we wish to live kindly, to love, to comfort, to help—it becomes hard. Sometimes I feel more pitiful than anyone else. And when we pity ourselves, it’s hard to see others warmly. And yes, there are people who seem to have hearts like demons. If we hold on to goodness, the world can start to feel like a jungle where it’s eat or be eaten. We’re forced to stay alert, always watching over our shoulders.

Next to my home studio, there is a small pond. I often open the window to look at it. A small bird often lands on the juniper branches reflected over the water. That pond is the safest place in the world. Yet the little bird is always on guard—so watchful that it cannot even drink a sip of water before flying away. Sometimes our lives feel just like that small bird’s.

It all began in 2020, at the height of the pandemic.
Three mothers who loved art met for the first time at a quiet neighborhood playground. Each of us wore a mask, our faces shadowed by the weight of sad and fearful news that seemed to come every day. The quarantine had just been lifted, and we brought our children outside, hoping they could finally play in the open air. But when we arrived, there was no one else there.

The playground that used to echo with laughter was empty, except for our four children. They ran and climbed, their voices tiny against the vast silence. We stood apart—about six feet, as the rule said—speaking through masks, our words carried on the wind. Somehow, that distance made our conversations deeper. We spoke about everything: childhood memories, family, art, the strange rhythm of time under lockdown.

I don’t think I’ve ever shared so many long and honest conversations in my life. Maybe it was the isolation, or maybe it was because we were the only ones there. But those talks, in that deserted playground, became the quiet heartbeat of our days. Looking back, I feel deeply grateful for those women. We helped each other endure a time that was filled with uncertainty and fear.

I still remember the day we joked about taking our masks off.
“What if we can’t recognize each other?” someone laughed.
When that day finally came, it felt like waking up from a long, dark dream. Slowly, the playground came back to life. More children returned. Laughter replaced fear. The sun felt brighter than before.
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Our kids are older now. They don’t go to that playground as often, but the memory of those afternoons will always stay with me. It was more than a place for children to play—it was where we built quiet courage, friendship, and hope.

One day, we decided to build another kind of playground—not of swings and slides, but of stories and imagination.
A playground of the heart.

That was how Moms’ Playground was born.
At first, it was just the three of us—Emilia, Freya, and me. Later, Becca joined, and we became four. We met to talk, write, and create. Whenever life felt too heavy, we gathered to tell stories, share words, and laugh. Sometimes we wrote, sometimes we drew, and often we simply dreamed together.

From those moments grew our first book, Our Treehouse.
Emilia wrote the most beautiful narration—gentle and full of wonder, like children building their dream treehouse in the sky. Her words painted such vivid images that illustrating them felt effortless. Page by page, we built that world together, sharing drafts, sketches, and little bursts of excitement with each new chapter.

When the book was finally published on Amazon, we felt an overwhelming joy.
We remembered the empty playground where it had all begun, and how stories had blossomed there when everything else felt barren. Just as those stories kept us alive through a difficult time, we hoped Our Treehouse would carry dreams and hope to others too.
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Today, Moms’ Playground is more than a book club.
It is a creative home—a playground of imagination and heart.
What started as three mothers talking across six feet of space has become a community built on storytelling, art, and shared joy.
We hope our journey continues to grow, reaching more people—mothers, children, dreamers—who will join us in this joyful act of creation.
Because even in the quietest, emptiest places, stories can bloom.