The Edge of Becoming
I recently found a few old sketches I’d made in my twenties and thirties, tucked in a folder I hadn’t opened in years.
Most were unfinished.
Their subject matter varied, but each one left me wondering:
Who in me drew that?
A single word showed up in nearly all of them—not just as a theme, but as part of the image:
Help.
At the time, I thought I was just trying to draw.
But I remember now—this was before therapy, before the healing.
There were so many moments in my life
when my heart was quietly, desperately asking for help.
I was trying to find my way to the other side of something—
many things I didn’t yet have language for.
A threshold.
A multitude of thresholds.
Ones I didn’t know how to cross alone.
I’ve stumbled upon this place many times—
the edge of becoming, where something new wants to emerge.
First comes awareness or inspiration—full of possibility.
Then fear and control grip the reins.
Next comes frustration. Then grief.
My chest tightens, the tears rise—
but I can’t cry.
Instead, I collapse,
lost in the dark, with no way forward.
One of my most recent thresholds appeared in 2023,
when my soul sent me a clear message:
I want to be an artist.
A declaration my heart had long been afraid to admit.
I’ve carried a stack of art supplies since I was 26—
living in a cramped East Village apartment
with a sketchpad, pencils, and a quiet longing I didn’t yet know how to follow.
In a beginner’s class, I quickly discovered
I couldn’t draw what I saw—only what I thought I saw.
I kept trying, but I couldn’t shift my perspective.
Eventually, I gave up.
The supplies were shelved.
My creativity gathered dust beside them.
Years later, they ended up in a drawer in my Charleston home office,
next to printer ink and a stapler.
Every so often, I’d open that drawer and feel a quiet wave of defeat,
though the longing was never fully gone.
So when that soul message came loud and clear, I listened.
I pulled the supplies out of the drawer and tried again—
this time with more intention and purpose.
But I still felt lost and frustrated,
unable to cross the threshold.
I didn’t know what kind of guide or class I needed—
only that I couldn’t do it alone.
Because alone,
the door to possibility slams shut.
This has been a pattern since I was a little girl.
Back then, there was no one.
No witness. No guide.
No gentle hand to hold in the unknown and uncertainty.
But now, I can ask for help.
So I did.
I asked Spirit to send me a supportive guide.
While I waited, I began doodling flowers and jellyfish—
simple shapes that were familiar and safe enough to keep the dream alive.
One day, a friend sent me a photo of a painting she’d done in an art lesson.
As I looked at it, energy moved through my body—an intuitive knowing—and the words I heard were:
Liberated expression.
I wanted to be in the presence of whoever had supported that kind of freedom.
That’s how I found my art teacher, Morgan Jones Johnston.
Morgan is intuitive, kind, wildly talented—
and she holds beautiful space.
A space where I can surrender, listen, and let myself be guided.
In our first lesson together, I knew I would feel safe enough to meet my edge. By the second lesson, I was back at the threshold—
but this time, I wasn’t alone.
Morgan led me through an exercise where I drew lines without looking, letting my feelings guide my hand.
As she introduced different tools—like watercolors and pastels—
the threshold began to speak to me.
It came through intuitively—in images, music, and words.
The same way it does when I channel a soul poem or offer a reading.
Morgan invited me to write a poem about my threshold.
When I read the poem at our next lesson,
my 15-year-old self appeared.
She spoke for the part of me that still needs help—
the one who carries all my younger selves.
She said:
I’m a storm cloud that doesn’t know how to rain.
That one line was a gift.
With Morgan’s guidance, I began to draw the storm cloud—as my 15-year-old self described it. When we were done, I looked down at the black scribbles and felt a surge of emotion.
She asked me to read the poem again.
I could barely finish.
My heart wanted to rain.
Then another feeling took over—
the need to see something prettier on the page.
I wondered aloud to Morgan
why I always doodle the same flower again and again.
Some part of me longs for uninhibited expression,
while another part aches to make something beautiful and exact.
My 15-year-old self answered:
Doodling is how I regulate my nervous system when things feel too big. And the desire to make things pretty?
That’s my longing to find light when I feel consumed by shame and darkness.
Morgan encouraged me to do both—
To spend time in my sketchbook
honoring the cloud that couldn’t rain—
the darkness, the mess, the magic of liberated expression—
And to draw or paint familiar objects around me,
like plants and butterflies. Pretty things that keep me afloat
when I’m swimming in the abyss.
What emerged from our time exploring the threshold
became both a poem and a painting.
Morgan’s compassionate presence and my willingness to stay curious
created more than a shift in creativity.
It was a return to an exiled part of me:
my 15-year-old self.
My soul, in its infinite wisdom, knew that exploring my inner artist would set me free. Though I’m still in the early stages of this exploration, something in me has already softened—with a new understanding and compassion for all kinds of thresholds.
These moments, when I stand on the edge of the unknown,
are opportunities for healing.
And I’m continuously reminded, because it’s so easy to forget,
I don’t have to be afraid of what’s on the other side.
Walking through this latest one has helped me appreciate the dual nature of my inner artist. I’m learning to honor both
the precise and the untamed parts of me.
As I reflect on the many thresholds I’ve crossed,
I see that I’ve never walked through them alone.
The vulnerable beginnings of any kind of becoming are sacred.
Choosing guides and mentors to walk with us
is an act of self-love.
There is so much we don’t need to do alone.
We can always ask for help—
from guides both human and divine,
whose presence, seen or unseen,
makes crossing our thresholds possible.
SOUL ECHOES
What threshold are you standing at now—and what would it take to cross it?
How does fear show up for you when you're on the edge of becoming?
What inner voices speak the loudest at your threshold?
Can you offer grace to the part of you that hesitates?
What seen or unseen support guides you when you most need it?
What gives you the courage to walk over your thresholds?
What happens when you surrender control of your becoming?
What ancient wisdom lives in your body when you cross into the unknown?
This is an invitation to explore with curiosity.
Trust what comes.
The soul speaks speaks first, before the mind rushes in to make sense of it.
