Every artist and crafter is familiar with this scenario: you see something gorgeous, think, oh, I can do it myself, and somehow it ends up costing ten times more.

Last year, a beautiful, sparkly, and elegant black tourmaline necklace winked at me from a shop window in Bologna, Italy. I thought to myself, 100 euro? Too much. I’ll do it myself. So I wandered down the block, found a Pakistani wholesale beading store, and bought a strand of rainbow tourmaline beads instead, because that was the closest they had to what I wanted.

And that was just the beginning. Since I had already committed to becoming a “beader,” I started collecting strands along my route: Amazonite in Athens, African turquoise in Haifa… and when I got back to Missoula, I signed up for a beading class so I could actually learn what to do with all my new bead strands (plus tools, plus supplies, plus a 20% discount they offered for the week, which of course I took full advantage of — leading to additional strands of rubies, chrysocolla, peridot, emeralds, blue kyanite, chrysoprase, bumble bee jasper — and I’m sure I’m forgetting a few…). Each stone calling me for a different aesthetic or energetic reason.

Long story short: about $1,000 later, I still want that black tourmaline necklace from Bologna. And we all know going back to Italy to get it is going to cost quite a bit more…

​Lesson learned… (maybe)… Well played, universe!

And I actually got pretty good at this beading thingy, so if you’re feeling like you’re ready for an off-the-beaten-path energetic shift or some pretty wearable magic, shoot me a line and let’s play!
​
⟡ Feeling off-vibe?
Need a dose of beauty? A bespoke prescription is available by consultation.
✦ What’s your magic?
Doctor Ive is in da house ⚕️😉​

In 2021, mid-pandemic, I did this awesome tour in Seattle called Stalking Seattle.

It’s led by this very cool woman who actually lived the grunge days in the city. She takes you on an almost private tour (or at least it was during Covid) of the most important places in grunge history.

I was 18 when grunge broke out, and of course it defined my coming of age. Grunge was the voice of our generation.

So she takes us around the city. We go to Capitol Hill, where Singles was filmed. I mean—that soundtrack alone is worth its price in gold. We visit an alley in Belltown where bands like Mookie Blaylock—before they became Pearl Jam--used to rehearse. She takes us to see Kurt Cobain’s home (and infamous garage) in Lake Washington, and to the apartment building in University District where Layne Staley spent his unfortunate last years and days.
​

But the place that hit me the most was in Pioneer Square.

There’s this bar there. The Central Saloon. I’m sure I’ve walked past it a million times before—because it’s where some of my favorite art galleries are. I had no idea that so many of the music giants played some of their first gigs there.

And that’s where she told us about this concept called “pay to play.”

It was interesting.
And also kind of disturbing.

I believe it was also referenced in the original lyrics of Nirvana's "Stay Away".

Back then, bands literally had to pay venues for the chance to play their own music. To perform. To attract an audience.

I mean—can you imagine a world where Nirvana had to pay to play?
What wouldn’t I pay to have seen Nirvana live.

That idea still haunts me.
Because when you stretch it beyond the grunge days, it reveals something sadder;
A belief we as a society quietly absorbed.

​✩ ♬ ₊.🎧⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

I’m not entirely sure why I was put on this earth.
In terms of a soul mission, that is.
I can see a few different trajectories.
​
But if there’s one thing—one thing—I would love to see change in this lifetime,
besides the way we treat animals,
it’s the starving artist mentality.
​

​When I came to Montana, my husband’s walls were empty.
Someone casually suggested, “Why don’t you paint something?”
I had just reconnected with painting after a fifteen-year strike.

I had always been creative.
As a kid, I drew, sculpted, decorated classrooms—anything that let my vision move through my hands. Later, I turned dingy apartments into precious little gems.
​
In university, I tried to minor in Fine Art, but it shut me down. It felt too bleh. Too disconnected from play.

I didn’t paint again for fifteen years.
Until I traveled for an entire year.
And something opened up again.

So I painted.
I hung the paintings on the walls.
I shared them online.
And then a friend wanted to buy one.
Suddenly, without trying to be anything, I was a professional artist.

And the first advice I received from two very well-meaning people, like clockwork, followed instantly:
“You can’t make a living from art.”
“So you want to be an artist? Cool—what are you willing to sacrifice?”
 
📓🍙🎧🖤🖱⛸🤍💭
 
My husband has one of the most fertile imaginations I’ve ever encountered.
He can turn the smallest pebble into an entire universe in seconds—from a spark to the funniest little string of words. He can actually build things as well.

In another life, he could have been an inventor.
A writer.
The next Charles M. Schulz.

But he’s an electrician.
​
Because someone has to pay the bills.
Yes—we need electricity.
But without artists, musicians, creators--
life becomes functional, efficient… and meh.

And that’s the lie we’ve been sold:
That art is optional.
That creativity is indulgent.
That the artist must pay to play.

Well, I have never been one to follow the masses
(you know why… Haha)

And because of that—I decided that I get paid to play.

​Because when you’re tuned, when you’re serving what you were actually designed to bring through, value follows.
​
I’m not here to starve for my creativity.
I’m here to be sustained because of it.

​From creating art so we could decorate the walls, it somehow turned into a career, because other people began wanting to buy my paintings. Time and money were not abundant, so the house took the back seat, but I continued adding little touches—here, and there—over the years, slowly replacing what was broken.

And then, in 2020, I finally made time to treat our house as one of my art projects. I began an ambitious transformation endeavor that pretty much ended sometime this year. I did it all by hand (except for the flooring, siding and carpet: Matt replaced the downstairs floor himself in 2016, we had the siding replaced in 2017 thanks to weather, and the upstairs carpet and bathroom floors in 2020 or 2021, I can’t remember). oh, and I made him change most of the light fixtures :D

Around the same time, I decided to add interior design to my offerings—not thinking much of how it was going to happen, in my mind a room was just a bigger canvas. Apparently, that’s not quite how it works once you involve clients in your creative expression. I studied interior design in 2020–2021 to make it official…and even received an Award of Merit from the New York institute of Art + Design - for Excellence in Interior Design.

Whether it was the award or the lighting module that did it, I don’t know. Because the moment I asked my husband Matt (the electrical contractor) about some lighting questions, he burst into flames:

“They don’t know what they’re talking about. They don’t know what they’re saying. This is crap. How much did you pay for this? I hate interior designers!”

Years of him working with difficult ones had rubbed off. And without even having a chance, my interior design career was cut off before it ever began. Nipped in the bud.

Since I was now an “official,” interior designer, I used it as an excuse to do what I do best: travel.

I started going to design markets around the country, mostly to meet up with my new designer friends, and to be surrounded by beauty. I didn’t have clients who needed that level of service—but I needed it.

When I went to my first Las Vegas Design market, it hit me:
Who’s ever going to hire me?
I have no high-end photos.
My home is beautiful but not “luxury.”
No marble counters, no $10,000 and up sofas.

Just heart, love, creativity, some dog fur, and my artistic touch.
And since I didn’t even have “before” photos of our home, the imposter syndrome kicked in deeper.
Then came the 3D courses.
Then AI.
A whole attempt to manufacture images so I had “proof” of my visual skills.​

​This isn’t the point of the story—but it is the truth. Somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting myself…even though I could make a room beautiful since the day I was born, even if only by my presence.
​

​Earlier this week, I was in the shower (aka my time machine, my little cosmic portal), when I suddenly got the nudge to offer a space reading for $111 — hidden-offer style.

And since I’m no longer arguing with my Spleen…
(it’s a Human Design thing for those of you who don’t know)
I posted it.

In my enthusiasm, I thought: Oh, this is it. Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. One client after another, after another. And I even posted an interior photo, so it was very clear what I was offering.

The download was about the name.
And okay… the name might be a little “out there.”
Because yes, I genuinely read spaces the way other people read palms or tea leaves.

Well—not predicting the future or giving premonitions.
But I can tell where a person is energetically and emotionally by looking at their space. And then I prescribe the medicine.
It’s just part of my magic. (Hint: It involves Beauty).

And no—the bookings did not ka-ching.

But a friend saw the offer… and laughed so hard she cried.
Because she thought I was offering outer space readings.

I might as well be. 🤣

What followed was the funniest, wildest three-hour conversation, and honestly, that alone made the whole post worth it.

At some point I told her, “Look, I just want to show up and do my magic. I’m not great at marketing or speaking ‘human.’ That’s where you come in. You tell people I’m awesome, they book, and we split the profits.”

She’s trying.
I’m letting it go.
Life is good.

Fast-forward to this morning (we’re in different time zones). I wake up to a message that reads:

“Childlike faith.”
I’m like… what?

She says, “Remember when you were a kid and believed in… magic, Santa, the tooth fairy — all that stuff? That’s what you tell people so they book.”

And I replied, “I still believe in magic.”

She said, “You do??”

Me: “Well… duh.”

Her: “Grow up.”

Me: “And you go re-read Peter Pan.”

We both laughed.

Jokes aside…
Maybe this is part of my mission.

I once saw a meme that said:
We live on a blue planet that circles around a ball of fire next to a moon that moves the sea…
and you don’t believe in miracles?

Maybe I’m here to remind the ones who forgot.
Maybe I’m here to inspire, uplift, and tap them on the shoulder gently like:

Hey… magic is real.
You just stopped noticing.
​