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musings from the studio and beyond ~

dawn chandler’s reflections on art and life. . . .


the moreno valley & me, part one

Looking south across Eagle Nest Lake from the pass of Hwy 64. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

The first time I entered and crossed the Moreno Valley was in July, 1982. I had just completed a Rayado Trek at Philmont. My brothers were both working as Rangers at Philmont that summer along with some other Scouting friends from back home. My parents and another family — close friends of ours — had spent early July road-tripping across Colorado, when they dipped into New Mexico to pick me up after Rayado. (As a notable aside, my parents had been my advisors for a Philmont trek in 1980, and this other couple had been my crew advisors in 1981). The plan was that from New Mexico we would go on to southwestern Colorado to backpack for a week in the Wiminuche Wilderness of the San Juans — which we did.

The Chandler Family, c.1982.

And so one sunny morning in mid-July of 1982, our family and friends caravanned west to make our way from Cimarron for a late breakfast at some supposedly renown eatery in Taos. This, then, for me was to be a day of many “firsts” — my first drive down Cimarron and Taos Canyons; my first time in Taos; my first breakfast at Michael’s Kitchen.
And, as I said, my first encounter with the Moreno Valley which, to this 17-year-old Jersey Girl, was by far the largest, widest valley I’d ever seen.

Highway 64 is the artery crossing the Moreno Valley, entering from the northeast as it zigzags down from that high pass and skirts the north rim of Eagle Nest Lake, before circling around to head south.

Topo map of the Moreno Valley.

To the east are the mountains of Philmont; to the west the dark hills crumple and fold upwards to Wheeler — New Mexico’s crowning peak.

Eventually on that same side of the road you’ll spot a remarkable piece of architecture — the first and for the longest time the ONLY (and surely one of the most beautiful) memorials to the Vietnam War. Just a little way further down the highway, to the southeast lies the Village of Angel Fire.

Looking south toward Angel Fire on Hwy 64 in the Moreno Valley. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

But right about here — before you leave the valley and enter the western mountains that will eventually lead you to Taos, you want to turn around and look north. For that’s when you’ll see what so many of my friends and I love to see: The long hump of Touch Me Not, and beyond that, rising to 12,441 feet, the rounded rocky summit of Baldy Mountain, Philmont’s highest peak, crowning over Eagle Nest Lake, the Moreno Valley, and the dreams of so many of us.

Looking north toward Baldy Mt. on Hwy 64 in the Moreno Valley. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

Last year I had occasion to reflect deeply on the Moreno Valley. For it was about a year ago when a Philmont friend contacted me about doing a special painting. My friend Carol comes from a long lineage of Philmonters, she herself being one of that early awesome sisterhood: the first generation of women Rangers of the early 1970s. [READ: GODDESSES] I had the great good fortune of getting to know Carol in 2015 when she joined our all women “Sole Sister” crew for a week-long Philmont Staff Association trek. Prior to our trek, Carol was a bit mysterious to me: one of those inspiring Philmont legends I’d mostly heard about over the years but had never met. It was a dream come true to get to hike with this legend (among several others) — for a whole week!

PSA Sole Sister Crew 712 PS6 2015 getting ready for a week-long backpacking trek at Philmont.

Part of what had added to Carol’s mystique for me was the awareness that her family had for years owned a family compound over in the Moreno Valley. A place where, back in the 1970s, when Carol and her siblings dominated the staff roster, there would be frequent staff gatherings on days’ off. By the time I came on staff on the 1980s, Carol and her family had mostly moved on with their lives, and their family compound parties of the 70s became the stuff of legends; a place for me of mysterious fascination. And — alas — a place, too, I likely would never get to see, since I didn’t know the family beyond acquaintance.

Just imagine the excitement when, after our PSA trek, Carol suggested our Sole Sister crew have a celebratory “end of trail” feast at the compound.
I’m pretty sure I squealed with delight.That dinner was magical, for all the reasons that a celebratory feast after a long and wonderful hike is magical. Once strangers, now united in community, in friendship. A sisterhood spanning ages, spanning shapes and sizes, spanning different roots, dreams, futures. All gathered around a rustic table celebrating each other, our community, the land, and our journey together. But also magical for the history — for the stories — of that place. To learn from Carol how her family first acquired a parcel under the trees all those decades ago. To see the shape of history of love tacked and tapestried on every wall, every shelf, in every piece of furniture.

And then those guestbooks.

To pore over page after page of those 1970s summers and recognize with glee so many names of friends and heroes and dear ones.

Philmont summer staff guestbook page c. 1980.
Another Philmont summer staff guestbook page c. 1980.

And then…. oh yes, and then…. to pull ourselves away from the books of signatures and step outside and walk to the edge of the pines , look out across meadows and down that long valley…. to Baldy Mountain.

What a view.

A gorgeous Moreno Valley view, looking north toward Baldy and Touch-Me-Not. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

That view is why Carol was contacting me about this time last year.

Her son was going to be getting married that summer and the ceremony was to be at the family compound in the Moreno Valley.

She wanted to give the bride and groom a special, meaningful gift…

And so she wanted to ask me: Might I consider painting their view of Baldy?

{ To be continued…. }

letting go of home

Dawn Chandler's childhood home in central New Jersey.

Wednesday, June 19, 2019 would have been my parents’ 65th wedding anniversary.

It’s also the day that I learned my childhood home has been destroyed.

My home of 42 years.

My tiny bedroom with the astonishing bookshelves wrapping around two walls and concealing a secret passage into another room, all meticulously handcrafted by my father. How many hours of labor and love he put into those each evening after returning home from the hospital. How many weekends were spent hauling boards up two flights of stairs from his workshop in the basement to my little room at the end of the hall.

The study, where my father spent many a night peering into his microscope and dictating into a tape-recorder. Where he planned Appalachian Trail adventures for family, friends and Scouts and later, tandem bicycle excursions with his beloved across the back roads of New Jersey, New England, France. Where, if they ever had anything serious to discuss, my parents retired to converse in private. I never, ever heard them raise their voices to each other — in that room or any other.

Every hallway… every bedroom…every bathroom, lined with books. Books. Books. Everywhere, books.

The large screened-in porch off the dining room and kitchen, where we supped every meal from May to September. Where Thanksgiving leftovers were kept in cold storage. Where the best naps in the world were had lounging on the long glider. Where my mother would sit at the long table my father had built, always in the chair to the left, closest to the kitchen’s Dutch door. Here she read the paper each summer morning, her tea turning cold as she became absorbed in a story while scratching the ear of a beloved dog sitting dotingly beside her.

The living-room with its enormous stone fireplace and stone mantel — as long as my father was tall and surely ten times as heavy. Where my brothers and I learned to build a dependable fire and then, by its warmth, know the pleasure of conversation by flamelight.

The dining room where lively conversation sparkled among wine glasses and beer steins, mugs of cider and impossibly strong black coffee and Red Rose tea. Where on winter weekends pages of the Sunday New York Times were made sticky with maple syrup from my father’s “justly famous” sourdough pancakes.

The kitchen.
All those apple pies… loaves of breads… Tollhouse cookies.

Those dozen rooms vibrating over four decades with symphonies and sonatas, cantatas and operas, vespers and bluegrass, rock and roll and folk, all from speakers wired throughout the house.

The root cellar transformed into wine cellar, pungent of earth and must, curtained in cobwebs, its dirt floor covered with corks and bottle leads from hundreds of dark green bottles from France.

The fieldstone front stoop where my mother would sip her afternoon tea and sort through mail while she waited for us to walk home from the school bus.

Fragrant paths that lead to hidden forts, hidden hideaways.

The goat barn, where my mother’s natural gift of animal whispering came to life as she assisted my brother with his small herd of French Alpines.

My father’s near acre of vegetable garden.

The old stone wall.

The tractor trail where we spent snow days sledding, Surely it was a mile long!

The berm that became a firing range, where my brothers and I learned to respect firearms.

The daffodils. The lilac. The forsythia.

The Lily of the Valley.

Mint for iced tea…..and gin and tonics.

The sandpile under the crabapple.

The chestnut trees. The dogwood. The willow.
The magnolia. The birch. The maple. The sycamore.

The hemlocks.

The holly.

The Christmas trees.

Four decades of Christmas trees planted each year in the early days of January, in holes dug in late autumn in anticipation of another addition to the arboretum of our yard. By the time the house was sold in 2006, our Christmas tree from 1965 — our first year in the house — soared with so many others high above the attic roof.

The pool where my brothers and I and any number of our friends learned to swim. Where we had nighttime games of Marco Polo, bats skimming our heads. And where, in my college years, I became lusciously acquainted with the sensuousness of midnight solo skinnydips.

All gone.

We knew this was coming. With my mother’s breast cancer and my father’s leukemia (which at that point was still asymptomatic and more of a nuisance than a daily worry) my parents had come to the realization that the house and property were just too much for them to manage by themselves anymore. That the time had come for them to sell the house and move into a nearby retirement community.
The man who bought the property just before the market tanked in 2008 had plans to “develop” it. And with its perfect proximity to New York and Philadelphia — each about an hour’s drive in opposite directions — you could pretty much bet that they were going to be McMansions.

But for twelve years after it sold, the house sat as it had pretty much always been, shaded by majestic trees, set back from the main road, with various families renting it here and there.

And I guess I wanted to believe that it would always remain there that way in the shade.
That maybe the developer would by some astounding miracle have a change of heart, and let this house that was such a beautifully tapestried home and haven continue to stand in perpetuity as a testament to lives well lived and a deeply happy and respectful marriage.

Of course all of that does still remain — if only in our hearts and memories.


And maybe that’s enough.


It has to be.


Watercolor sketch of artist Dawn Chandler's childhood home.
watercolor sketch of my childhood & deepest heart’s home . . . in central New Jersey
. . . painted wednesday evening, 19 june 2019 . . .





Artist Dawn Chandler at the age of 4ish taking control of the situation.

Still bossy after 50+ years, Dawn Chandler is an artist and avid outdoorswoman who celebrates life and her love of nature via her writing, photography and most especially through her traditional & abstract landscape paintings. She feels blessed every day to live in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. Learn more about Dawn, her art and her story on her website at Or simply go here for a quick link to shop her art.

georgia o’keeffe & me

My first time visiting the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum was in 1997, soon after they opened.

Yesterday was my first time back.

Outside the Georgia OKeeffe Museum, Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

Did I mention the Georgia O’Keeffe museum is two miles from my house?

Yet it took me twenty-two years to walk through the doors again.

Two decades!

Georgia O'Keeffe 1988 MET retrospective poster

Yes. I’m pretty embarrassed by that. And really, I can’t tell you why it took me so long. There’s a list of poor excuses. Part of the blame may be because my first visit there — right when they opened — I was unimpressed.
With the arrogant air of a freshly minted MFA student who had experienced the massive 1988 O’Keeffe retrospective in a real museum in a real city, I was oh so quick to judge. This Santa Fe building? This museum? This was…. oh so quaint….

And, well…. I just never made it back. Which is kind of shameful for one who loves museums.

It wasn’t a decision not to go back.

It just didn’t ever happen. Part of that was the Truth that we so often don’t visit the sites in our own town. Why that is, I don’t know, but it’s likely because we figure we have all the time in the world to go, but then never make the point of going!

Then there’s lazy stinginess: If I’m going to pay $2 to park downtown, well, I have more urgent priorities ( like, ummm…. going herehere…. here…. and here ).

Then there’s the fact that somewhere in the middle of those two decades I read a biography of O’Keeffe that left me with a sour impression. I got the sense that the woman was kind of unpleasant. Really though, that probably reveals more about me at the time of my reading that particular bio than it says about her. Or maybe it says more about the tone of the biographer than of O’keeffe’s essence.

But mostly I hadn’t made it back to the O’Keeffe Museum because I felt I already knew a lot about her and was already familiar with her work. Seemed like everywhere you looked there was her art featured on a poster….

Georgia O'Keeffe poster for the Santa Fe Chamber Music Festival 1978.

So I didn’t feel a particular need to see more of it in person any time soon.

Yet please don’t think these “negatives” mean I disliked her work. Quite the contrary, I had always rather admired her work. In fact, there was a time about a decade ago when, on the other side of the globe in an autumnal European City, Georgia O’Keeffe carried me back home to New Mexico.

Still, I didn’t go to the O’Keeffe museum.

Till yesterday. Yesterday I went.

It was splendid.

Museum exhibit banner of Georgia Okeeffe carrying a canvas outside

And I’m kicking myself for taking so long to get back there. Indeed, my sophomoric dismissal of the museum 22 years ago says a whole lot more about me and my snooty attitude than it served as a worthy critique of the fledgling museum.
Now, in the two decades since, the museum and its collection has grown into a marvelous center for viewing and exploring creativity in general and of one of the great artists of the 20th century in particular.

Walking into the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum was like walking into the salon of a friend — a sister. A compatriot. Simpatica.

I felt like she was speaking to me — directly to me — through her paintings, her sketches, her collections of brushes, tubes of paints and sticks of color; her desert bones.

Georgia O'Keeffe, 'Untitled' (Red and Yellow Cliffs), oil on canvas, 1940.
Georgia O'Keeffe, Untitled (Abstraction), black pen on paper, 1963/64
Georgia OKeeffe's paint brushes.
Rattlesnake skeleton displayed in banco at Georgia O'Keeffe Museum

Through her work she was saying to me It’s OK — what you’re doing with your work is OK — it’s all OK.

OK meaning perfect.

OK meaning just right.

For here is what struck me particularly, what I wrote in my journal there in the last gallery of the museum late yesterday afternoon:

Dawn Chandler's notes in her journal when visiting the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum

OK meaning keep doing what you’re doing.

OK meaning keep on looking, keep on listening, keep on noting, keep on painting.

I was struck by the fact that she didn’t seem to be haunted by critics pushing her to choose between styles and interests. That she painted her version of “traditional” landscapes with just as much studied interest as she painted her abstractions. If those critical voices tried to haunt her, she left them like bones to dry out in the desert.

OK meaning keep on with your “traditional” “representational” landscapes.

Georgia OKeeffe 'Black Mesa Landscape, New Mexico/Out Back of Marie's II, oil on canvas, 1930

OK meaning keep on with your abstractions.

Georgia O'Keeffe 'Blue-A' oil on canvas, 1959

OK meaning keep on loving and painting and celebrating your cranes. Your clouds. Your skies. Your words. Your sketches. Your hearts. Your everything.

OK meaning just keep on keeping on.

And, while you’re at it, sanctify your blessed, creative solitude, your focus. Turn off the phone.

Carry a sketchbook.


Honor your creativity. Your vision.

And Be.

Dawn Chandler's digital grid of several Georgia OKeeffe paintings from the Georgia OKeeffe Museum in Santa Fe.

psssst: To my Tuesday Dawnings subscribers — keep an eye out for my next edition for some O’Keeffe-inspired sketchbook musings!
Not yet signed up for Tuesday Dawnings? Go here for more info.


Artist Dawn Chandler enjoying coffee and journalling time by the Rio Grande.

Thank you for reading my blog and appreciating my musings.
If you enjoy my posts and know others who might enjoy them too, please feel free to share this.
~ Dawn Chandler

You can find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website,, as well as on Instagram and Facebook. Peruse and shop for my art here, and sign up for Tuesday Dawnings weekly deep breath of uplift & insight here.


working & walking in the new mexico mud

I had in mind an altogether different blog post for this installment.

But then something happened to me today.

On my early morning run through my neighborhood I noticed a sign….

Mud Day sign at the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

I like labyrinths. In fact I’ve even written about labyrinths before on this blog, about ten years ago.

But as far as labyrinths go, I admit that I’ve always thought the dried mud one at my local park to be a sorry excuse for one. Twenty years old it’s rarely used (that I’ve noticed). Neglected, dusty and weedy, it looks forlorn. I’ve gone by it nearly every day for five years, but rarely have I been tempted to walk it; it’s just never seemed appealing there in the dirt. I’ve hardly even photographed it — and that tells you something.

And yet … sometimes when the sun is low an the earth is aglow, the labyrinth transforms into something nearly beautiful. Kind of like Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.
And the peace flags that hang in the simple, rugged awning… Well, they beckon me with my camera frequently.

Peace flags at the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

So when I saw that sign this morning as I ran by I thought, Maybe I should go help them… Maybe if I work on the labyrinth, I’ll care more about it.

Ohhhhhhh, But…. I had so many things to do today… My long list included painting, and computer work and painting and household chores and painting and errands and painting.

Yes. But, I don’t get out and volunteer nearly enough.
And I don’t really know my Santa Fe community very well.
This would be such a great chance to be involved, to help out, to be a good neighbor.

BUT…. I finally had a day in which I could paint ALL MORNING! Something I was planning on and VERY eager to do!

So NO. I would stay home and work in my studio as I had planned and as I had looked forward to doing.

First though I needed to get out of my running clothes and take a shower.

And then one of those better-angel-voices in my head chimed in: Before you change out of those smelly fitness clothes and get cleaned up, why not just run down to the park and just help them out for a little while. 30 minutes! An hour MAX! THEN come back and clean up. THEN paint.

I filled my thermos with coffee, grabbed a water bottle and work gloves and drove back over to the park.




I returned home four hours later.

Worn out. Satisfied. Blissful.

And with a new appreciation for our beautiful earthen labyrinth.

What had I done during those 4 hours?

I shoveled dirt.
I hauled water.
I tamped mud
— all to the vibrant rhythm of a live and joyous marimba band.
And most important of all, I met and worked side by side with my neighbors.

Volunteers working on remudding the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.
Live marimba music to enliven the remudding work on the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

And when we were finished with our labor, I gathered with them in a circle around an earthen heart shaped by caring hands, and with a wish for peace joined them in lining the heart with stones.

Volunteers and muscians gather for Mud Day at the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.
Neighbors gather stones to place around the earthen heart at the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.
Neighbors gather stones to place around the earthen heart at the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

We then nourished ourselves with conversation over a potluck picnic.

And at 1:00pm, as three harpists under a nearby cottonwood tree strummed magic from their strings….

Harpists serenade the walking of the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe on Mud Day. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

and as our fellow labyrinth walkers in the Midwest of our country were winding down their silent walk, we joined thousands of others across the mountain states in walking in silence.

And when we concluded our walk, sojourners on the west coast stepped out together on their own paths.

Neighbors gatherto walk the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.
Neighbors gather to walk the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

For it turns out today — the first Saturday in May — is World Labyrinth Day. And when we walked the circuitous path in silence together, we joined thousands of other labyrinth walkers across the Earth, walking for peace.

On this day we are united
with past pilgrims,
current sojourners,
and future seekers.

We invite this labyrinth walk
to un-strange us from ourselves,
un-alienate us from one another here,
and un-wall us from fellow pilgrims far away:
let all who truly seek
truly join.

From “Meeting the World in My Walk”
by Mary Ann Wamhoff of Santa Fe.

The earthen heart at the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

I learned today that this labyrinth revival & walk in my local park was sponsored by the Labyrinth Resource Group of Santa Fe who encourage the creation and use of labyrinths as a path of healing, inspiration, and peace — a community I wasn’t even aware of!

Oh, but I am now. And so very grateful to be.

May the Fourth be with you!

Peace flags at the Frenchy's Park labyrinth in Santa Fe. Photo by Dawn Chandler.

Want to walk a labyrinth? Find one near you here.


Thank you for reading my blog and appreciating my musings.
If you enjoy my posts and know others who might enjoy them too, please feel free to share this.
~ Dawn Chandler

You can find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website,, as well as on Instagram and Facebook. Peruse and shop for my art here, and sign up for Tuesday Dawnings weekly deep breath of uplift & insight here.

celebrating grace: the art of migrating home

Last week at this time I was sipping coffee while looking out across the early morning light glittering off a tributary of the Potomac River. I’d gone east to the land of water and trees to visit again the home of a beloved elder, who offered my spirit sustenance and solace during a long ago chapter of my life; a chapter of much growth and expression coupled with certain uncertainty. (My latest Tuesday Dawnings has some lovely pics from this trip.)

As I made this journey to a beloved homeland, there are others, now — hundreds of thousands of others — making journeys of their own across this beautiful and extraordinary country of ours. For it is Spring, and that means the cranes — the waterfowl, the migrating birds — are moving.

Sandhill cranes on Nebraska's Platte River. Photo by Dawn Chandler

You who regularly read these musings of mine know that for many weeks last autumn and early this winter I dedicated much of this blog to sharing my crane paintings — my mixed-media, semi-abstract, semi-figurative, imaginative paintings celebrating my infatuation with the sandhill cranes. Some of you wrote to me to tell me how much you enjoyed these weekly blog posts, and several of you generously decided that you needed my cranes to inhabit the walls of your home. Thank you.

'Secretly, Joyfully, Clearly' - a colorful deeply blue-purple painting by artist Dawn Chandler celebrating sandhill cranes.
“secretly, joyfully, clearly'”~ mixed media on panel ~ 8″ x 8”

In recent months however, my online presence has been dominated by my new creative project of Tuesday Dawnings. These weekly curations have been a labor of love. Yes, they are a lot of work. But they also fill me with curiosity and serenity. I’m loving the process of gathering beauty and sharing it with my Tuesday Dawnings circle, my TD tribe. Thank you to everyone who has joined me for these weekly journeys. I so value your openness and willingness to hear from me each Tuesday.

The welcoming image of a recent installment of Dawn Chandler's Tuesday Dawnings weekly series

Yet as I’ve gathered and culled my weekly musings this winter, I also made quiet time to work further on my crane paintings.

detail from 'Breath' - a mixed media painting by artist Dawn Chandler celebrating the Sandhill cranes.
detail from “breath”

Now though, as the seasons change and the cranes have left New Mexico for a spell, so, too, am I putting aside my painted cranes for a while. Other projects are calling to me.

It seems the crane paintings want to be my focus in the winter months, when my muse and I can look forward to when the cottonwoods turn gold, and the first wide spread of wings appear high in the sky.

And so here you are — the last of my crane paintings…. for now.

(These will be familiar to my TD Tribe, for you had a peek at these in March. 😉

'Into the Beyond' - a mixed media painting in cool shades of blues, greys and earth colors, by artist Dawn Chandler celebrating the Sandhill cranes.
“into the beyond ” ~ mixed media on panel ~ 16″ x 12″

These crane paintings all are made by building up layers of printed text, cut papers, and acrylic paint. As I build layers, I wait to see what emerges. I never start with a plan or known outcome. Rather, I just respond to the layers and shapes. Always I’m surprised by the figures — the people — who show up in these. Surprised — and delighted!

'Thawing, RIsing, Rejoicing' - a mixed media painting featuring a tree, bright light and soaring cranes by artist Dawn Chandler.
“thawing, rising, rejoicing” ~ mixed media on panel ~ 16″ x 12″
'Ready to Rise' - a mixed media painting featuring a radiant figure with arms open wide and a pair of blue sandhill cranes by artist Dawn Chandler.
“ready to rise” ~ mixed media on panel ~ 16″ x 12″

My personal journals — my written musings and reflections — are the source of the words ghosted in these paintings. Here’s a video of me in my studio one recent afternoon, reading aloud from one of these writings about my first experience going to the Platte River to witness the crane migration. Pour yourself a cuppa and come listen.

'Spread Your Awkwardly Elegant WIngs" - a mixed media painting featuring a figure with arms wide and a family of blue sandhill cranes by artist Dawn Chandler.
“spread your awkwardly, elegant wings” ~ mixed media on panel ~ 16″ x 12″
'Breath' - a mixed media painting glowing shades of blue and familis of cranes rising through clouds by artist Dawn Chandler.
“breath” ~ mixed media on panel ~ 24″ x 18″

By the way if you’re on my REAL MAIL list, you’ve recently received (or are about to receive) a note card in the mail with this painting, “Breath” on it. Alas, the image on the card doesn’t accurately capture the radiant blues of the actual painting; this image above is more true in color.

{ Speaking of mail, if you would like the joy of receiving REAL MAIL send me your mailing address; I’ll gladly send you a thoughtful note a couple times per year. }

'Wings of Earth, Wings of Sky'  a mixed media painting featuring  sandhill cranes silhouetted against the sky by artist Dawn Chandler.
“wings of earth, wings of sky” ~ mixed media on panel ~ 18″ x 24″
'Angels of the High Plains' - a mixed media painting featuring an angel dancing across the plains as a sandhill crane soars above - by artist Dawn Chandler.
“angels of the high plains” ~ mixed media on panel ~ 12″ x 12″

Nearly all of these paintings are available for purchase, and I will be adding them one by one to my online shop over the next few days. If you can’t wait that long shoot me message to inquire about any of them; I’d be delighted to answer your questions and provide you with more details!

Artist Dawn Chandler in her Santa Fe home.

Thank you for reading my blog and appreciating my musings.
If you enjoy my posts and know others who might enjoy them too, please feel free to share this.
~ Dawn Chandler

You can find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website,, as well as on Instagram and Facebook. Peruse and shop for my art here, and sign up for Tuesday Dawnings weekly deep breath of uplift & insight here.