There are places that stay in your bones. For me, that place has always been the sea.
I was born near the ocean — on the west coast of a different continent — and although I now live 12,000 kilometers away, still I find myself by the shore, on another west coast, tracing the same horizon line with my eyes. The details have changed: the light, the birds, the temperature of the water. But the feeling? It’s the same. Familiar. Elemental. Like the sea is a language I was born speaking.
Each time I walk onto the sand, something quiet happens inside. I slow down, but more than that — I return to myself. The ocean doesn’t ask anything of me. It doesn’t care what I’ve achieved or failed to do. It just is — vast, open, wild — and in its presence, I remember that I am too.
This morning, like many others, I brought a feather I found and began drawing a labyrinth in the sand. Shell by shell, I marked a path — not to reach a destination, but to come back inward. My fingers pressed the lines into wet sand while the sea rolled in and the sun painted gold on the water.
And then, like always, the tide rose. The lines blurred. The shells shifted. And yet I didn’t feel any sense of loss. That’s the thing about the sea — it teaches you to let go. To build anyway. To create beauty with full knowledge that it’s temporary.
I live a life shaped by many threads: clay under my nails, bees buzzing in my garden, words spilling into pages, rituals made of herbs, wax, and thread. But the sea is where I go to remember the oldest parts of myself. The parts no one sees, but that hold everything together.
People sometimes ask me if I miss “home.” And yes — I do. But I also carry home in my body. In the way I notice the wind, in the pull of the tides on my dreams, in the spirals I draw in sand without even thinking.
So I come to the beach. I walk. I make. I listen. Not to be productive, not to solve anything. But to be in communion — with the world, with myself, with whatever is older than both.
Because even if the tide washes it all away… the making, the being, the barefoot stillness — that stays.
In mijn atelier, omringd door de geur van aarde en de stille, vormbare kracht van klei, ontvouwt zich telkens een bijzondere reis. Een reis van creatie, verbinding en transformatie. Mijn werk draait om het zichtbaar maken van de diepere lagen van het mens-zijn, geïnspireerd door mythen en verhalen die al eeuwenlang voortleven in de natuur en in onszelf.
Een belangrijk onderdeel van mijn creatieve proces is het maken van sculpturen van mythische figuren zoals Persephone, Cerridwen en Rhiannon. Deze godinnen belichamen de cyclische aard van het leven – groei, verlies, transformatie en wedergeboorte. Elk sculptuur dat ik creëer, is een tastbare vertelling van de innerlijke reis die we allemaal maken, van kwetsbaarheid naar kracht, van duisternis naar licht.
Klei als spiegel van de ziel
Klei is meer dan alleen een materiaal; het is een spiegel van ons innerlijk. Het laat zich vormen en transformeren, net zoals wij dat in het leven doen. Door mijn handen door de klei te laten glijden, geef ik uiting aan de diepe processen van groei en heling. De aardse texturen, de zachte lijnen en de ruwe randen vertellen een verhaal – over loslaten, opnieuw beginnen en de kracht die schuilt in het omarmen van verandering.
De verhalen die ik tot leven breng in klei, weerspiegelen de balans tussen kracht en zachtheid, tussen loslaten en vasthouden. Persephone, de godin van het leven en de onderwereld, symboliseert deze overgang als geen ander. Haar sculptuur vangt de melancholie en hoop die gepaard gaan met verandering. Net zoals zij elk jaar terugkeert uit de duisternis, herinneren haar vormen ons eraan dat na elke winter een lente komt.
Inspiratie uit oude verhalen
Mijn sculpturen vinden hun wortels in eeuwenoude mythologieën. Zo is er Cerridwen, de Keltische godin van transformatie en wijsheid, en Rhiannon, de godin van vrijheid en doorzettingsvermogen. Hun verhalen herinneren ons eraan dat verandering en groei universeel zijn, en dat ieder van ons een eigen pad bewandelt.
Het creëren van deze sculpturen is voor mij niet alleen een artistiek proces, maar ook een innerlijke reis. Het werken met klei helpt me om mijn eigen cycli van groei en loslaten te omarmen en biedt een manier om diepere verbindingen te leggen met mezelf en de verhalen die ons al generaties lang inspireren.
Laten we deze verhalen blijven vertellen – in klei, in woorden en in onze daden. Iedereen draagt zijn eigen verhaal in zich, en het is aan ons om het tot leven te brengen.
It’s nearly summer here in the Netherlands, and I feel the need for quiet. For space. For peace, calm, and free thinking — especially in these strange and noisy times we’re all living in.
So I’m going back to pen and paper. The old ways. A slower rhythm. Scribbling instead of swiping. And spending even more time bare feet in nature and in my studio. Creating and keeping my hands busy. There is still so much I want to learn and practice. Not by scrolling, but by reading about techniques and in methods in books and trying it out for myself.
This isn’t goodbye — just a gentle see you later. And if you miss me, you know where to find me. Write me a good old letter or send a card…. or Leave a note with the bees— and I promise I’ll send something back 🕊
Quiet moments in my clay studio, surrounded by sunlight, greenery, and a warm cup of coffee. There’s something meditative about shaping clay—slow, steady, and full of life.
From tiny charm figures to vases with their own personality, every piece carries a little story. And the clay on the table (and on my shirt) just means it’s been a good day. So happy with this project.
Een mooie Moederdag voor alle mamma’s! Iedere moeder verdient zo’n mamma beer stoel om je voetjes omhoog te doen en heerlijk te ontspannen met een favoriet boek, handwerkje en kopje thee (wijn) hahaha
Nog iets om jullie op te vrolijken. Tijdens onze roadtrip met de camper ontstonden deze klei-wezentjes — elk met z’n eigen persoonlijkheid, houding en blik. Kleine reisgenoten, gevormd uit rustmomenten en inspiratie onderweg. Ze lijken bijna tot leven te komen, alsof ze hun eigen verhalen willen vertellen. Zelfs in de camper kun je dus prima kleien… Zeker het proberen waard.
We hebben onze eerste bijenzwerm geschept en alles verliep uitstekend. In de middag vertrok de oude koningin met ongeveer een derde van het volk en ging in een boom zitten.
Door regenwater te sproeien konden we de zwerm kleiner maken. Zo bleef er een groter deel van het volk in de kast achter en konden we rond 17:20 uur nog een mooie aflegger maken, voordat we beide volken naar de boerderij verplaatsten.
Het resultaat: drie sterke volken en één volk met een honingkamer erop.
Just look at her bloom! Our little apple tree is once again bursting with delicate white flowers — a promise of sweet, crisp apples to come. It always amazes me how much beauty and abundance one small tree can offer, especially right here in the heart of a city garden.
Even in an urban backyard in the Randstad, it’s absolutely possible to grow your own organic fruit. A little care, a little patience, and nature does the rest.
April in the garden is full of anticipation. Everything’s waking up — the bees are busy (you can just spot the hive in the background!), the soil is soft, and the light feels a little warmer each day.
I’m already dreaming of those first bites of sun-warmed apples come late summer. But for now, I’m simply enjoying the blossoms. Fragile. Fleeting. And full of life.
Meanwhile indoors::
🧵 Siem, My Little Shadow
Wherever I go, she follows. And wherever I settle — at the sewing table, by the clay, in the garden — Siem finds a spot close by, usually right in the action.
Here she is, mid-inspection of my sewing supplies. That look? Equal parts judgment and devotion. She’s not entirely sure why I’m fussing with fabric when I could be scratching under her chin, but she stays. Always close. Always watching.
She’s my 10 year-young cat, my silent companion, my little shadow with sharp blue eyes and a heart that beats softly next to mine.
No matter what I’m making, it feels a little more complete with Siem by my side.
Say hello to my very first tiny teddy — stitched by hand, stuffed with love, and already off exploring the world (mostly houseplants for now, but who knows what’s next?).
He’s not perfect. His stitches wobble a little, his arms are slightly uneven, and I love him all the more for it. There’s something incredibly special about making a little creature from nothing but scraps and time — watching it slowly take shape in your hands until suddenly, there he is. A bear.
I used a piece of soft, worn plaid fabric I couldn’t bear to throw away — it already had stories in it, and now it has a few more. Every stitch felt like a little spell, anchoring joy and curiosity into cloth.
He’s been spotted climbing the bonsai, sunbathing by the water glass, and resting in my palm, waiting patiently for his next adventure.
Honestly? I’m hooked. I think he may soon have friends.
There’s something about early spring light that feels like a soft invitation — to begin again, to notice more, to get busy in the gentlest of ways.
The Magnolia tree outside my window is bursting into bloom, and my studio is bathed in that pale, golden light that only spring brings. Brushes, pots, notebooks, and little bowls of colour are scattered across the table, ready for the next wave of inspiration. It’s that beautiful in-between time — not quite summer, no longer winter — when everything feels quietly alive.
And outside, the bees are humming. And I’m feeling hopeful.
They’ve started flying again, joyful and determined, returning to the hive with legs full of pollen like tiny golden pantaloons. Watching them always gives me a little jolt of wonder. Such small creatures — such great purpose.
Preparing for the Spring Inspection
While they work, I’m busy too. Tomorrow is the first proper spring inspection of the season, and I’m preparing everything we’ll need: tools, notes, fresh frames, and of course — a calm presence. Beekeeping, like any kind of tending, asks for presence above all.
There’s something deeply grounding about syncing your days with the rhythm of the hive. You begin to feel the season not just in the temperature or the flowers, but in the energy of things — a quickening, a stirring, a coming back to life.
Between the garden and the studio, I move in a quiet rhythm of my own — checking on the bees, washing brushes, watching the light change across the walls. It’s a simple kind of joy. A slow one. And for me, that’s the best kind.
Tomorrow I’ll open the hive and check how they’ve made it through the winter. But today, I’m letting the sunlight warm the table, the scent of spring drift through the open door, and the soft hum of bees remind me: life returns.
We’re still happily hooking away over here — stitch by stitch, colour by colour — and always with my favourite little shadow curled up beside me. 🐾
Amna (yes, that fluffy Sheltie face you see!) has fully claimed the crochet spot as her own. She supervises my work closely, keeps the blanket warm in between rows, and occasionally tries to “help” by gently stealing a ball of yarn… or two.
We’re working on the beautiful Canal Boat CAL by the ever-inspiring Lucy at @Attic24 — and oh, what a joyful journey it’s been! All those delicious colours, those happy stripes, the feeling of rhythm and brightness that grows with every row. It’s like crocheting a little boat ride through springtime.
There’s something so soothing about it all: the soft click of the hook, the tug of the yarn, the peaceful weight of the blanket growing over my lap… and, of course, a snuggly Sheltie snoozing right beside me.
Not sure when we’ll be “finished” — but honestly, I don’t mind. We’re enjoying the journey far too much to rush it.
We had the most beautiful early spring day. Soft sun, blue skies stretching wide over green fields, and the land already whispering promises of new life.
A perfect day for walking — breathing in the stillness, soaking in the light, and feeling the quiet rhythm of the seasons shift. Somewhere between winter’s hush and spring’s first song.
And then, home again… Just in time to catch this view: the crescent moon rising with Venus glowing just above it — like a blessing in the sky. A reminder that beginnings don’t have to be loud to be powerful.
✨ What a magical way to welcome Imbolc — the turning point where light begins to return, seeds begin to stir, and hope gently awakens.
02.02:: 🌿 Clay Days — Garden Goddesses in the Making
I’ve been happily tucked away in my clay studio, shaping a new series of frost-proof herbal women — earthy, expressive garden sculptures designed to live outdoors all year round. Each one is hand-built with love, made to hold herbs, flowers… or even birdseed if you like!
They’re now ready to be fired — the next exciting step before they can settle into the garden and begin their new lives among the growing things. I can already picture them standing among the blooms, cradling thyme and calendula, welcoming bees and birds alike.
As the days lengthen, it’s almost time to start sowing this year’s herbs. I’m dreaming of chamomile, lemon balm, wild mint… and I can’t wait to see how my kruidenvrouwtjes look when filled with living green.
🌼 I also have two ready-made herbal women available for adoption! They’re weatherproof, one-of-a-kind, and just as lovely used as planters or as whimsical bird-feeding bowls. I’m happy to take custom orders too.
11.02:: ✂️ A Quiet Afternoon Project
Time to hem the curtains — a slow, satisfying little sewing job I’ve actually been looking forward to. Just me, a tin full of pins and thread, some good light, and a calm rhythm of stitches.
It’s lovely how even small, practical handwork can feel like a creative pause in the day. A moment to breathe. To mend. To make.
13.02:: 💘 Room With a View (and a Heart Full of Love)
Back in my room with a view — sky soft and pastel, just a hint of pink in the clouds. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and honestly… I feel like I’m floating on a little pink cloud already.
That in love feeling is still here, just like 21 years ago. Only now, it’s wiser. Deeper. More grounded. And somehow even more tender.
I feel so grateful to be here — in this moment, in this light, in this love.
Wishing you a beautiful Valentine’s Day — whether you’re celebrating with someone else or simply celebrating you. Because you, too, are worthy of love, softness, and joy. 🌷
🌸 Flowers Old & New
The first bouquet — now three weeks old — is still standing tall and smiling softly from the kitchen table. A little faded, a little wild, but still full of charm.
The second bouquet just arrived and hasn’t even been arranged yet, but already the colours are lighting up the room. Bright pinks, bold orange, soft purples — like a burst of spring waiting to be placed.
It’s such a small thing, but flowers really do lift the heart. Old ones with memories. New ones with promise.
17.02:: ☀️ Sunshine Outside and In
Blue skies, bright light, and a cheerful little walk with my four-legged shadow. The world feels wide and alive on days like these — crisp winter air, long shadows from the pollarded trees, and the soft rustle of reeds by the water.
Back home, the sunshine follows me inside… dancing across the table and lighting up my beautiful little Valentine’s Day flowers. A simple bouquet, but it brings me so much joy. Red, white, green, soft yellow — like a promise that spring is slowly on its way.
Feeling deeply grateful today. For sunlight. For small walks. For bright blooms in a jar. For all the ordinary things that make life quietly wonderful.
18.02:: ❄️ Sunshine, Frost & Thin Ice
A bright, cold day — the kind that stings your cheeks and sparkles on the water. The little coots were boldly strutting across the thin ice, their tiny feet tapping a rhythm as if the pond were glass.
Meanwhile, Amna found something far more interesting in the frozen ground, completely unfazed by the chill.
Late winter has a magic all its own. Quiet. Crisp. Full of strange little moments — birds walking where they should swim, light stretching just a bit longer, and paws pressing softly into frosty soil.
21.02:: 🐝 February Flight: The Bees Are Back
What a beautiful sight — our bees are back in action! After months tucked away in the quiet dark of the hive, the first warm day in February brought a burst of life and motion. The air filled with the soft hum of wings, as the bees emerged to stretch, to fly… and, quite literally, to relieve themselves.
This first outing of the season is called the cleansing flight — a charming term for an essential need. Bees won’t soil the hive, so after a long winter indoors, they need this moment to empty their tiny stomachs and reset. But today, I saw something even more exciting…
They weren’t just flying. They were working.
I spotted the first foragers returning with golden bundles of pollen tucked tightly to their legs — a sure sign that flowers are blooming, food is available, and most importantly: the queen is alive and well.
The Hope of Spring
Early spring always brings a little bit of tension for a beekeeper. You never quite know how your colony fared through the cold, the damp, and the months without fresh forage. Did they have enough food? Did disease or mould creep in? Has the queen survived?
But the sight of pollen-laden bees flying with purpose tells you everything you need to know. The hive is waking up. The queen has likely started laying her first eggs. The cycle of life is beginning again.
And with it, a new generation of pollinators will soon emerge — ready to visit flowers, support ecosystems, and quietly play their part in the blooming of spring.
In a world that often rushes forward, bees remind us to move with the seasons. To pause. To prepare. To return, when the moment is right, with purpose.
February is still fragile. But it’s full of promise. And today, the bees whispered: we made it.
28.02:: 👀 Watched From Afar
Siem is keeping a close (and slightly judgmental) eye on me from her favourite lookout spot on the stairs today. She’s not one to rush, but I know what she’s waiting for…
Time to light the wood stove so Madam can stretch out in her royal spot by the fire. Because clearly, her comfort is the priority.
Sometimes all you need is to light the fire, grab a good book, and treat yourself to a giant mug of herbal tea. 🍵 The world slows down a little. The warmth creeps in. And suddenly, everything feels just a bit softer. How do you spend your moments of pause?
