In my 50s, during a contemplative retreat, I brought a few objects from my past to burn in a ritual. Afterward, as I cleaned out the fireplace in my cabin, I placed a sheet of paper on the floor to catch the charcoal dust. When a few pieces fell and I brushed them aside, the ashes smeared into a swirling, watercolor-like image. The items I had burned had transformed into something unexpectedly beautiful.
Instead of discarding the coals, I brought them home and continued creating daily smudgings, meditating on the symbols that emerged. Eventually, I longed for color. I found broken chalk pastels I had saved and began selecting a few pieces at random each morning, tapping them over the paper and smudging the dust with my hands and arms. The practice grounded me—a mind, body, and spirit ritual that gave each day a sense of purpose.
Over time, these morning smudgings became an artistic journal, spanning years of quiet reflection and creation.