The morning started like most of mine do — with the best of intentions and a few creative detours. I had just washed a Halloween glass when I noticed the last of the garden tomatoes calling out to be roasted. Out came the baking sheet… which, of course, needed a good scrub first. Ten minutes later, the oven timer chimed, and I found myself back at the table gilding tiny clay leaves while listening to ADHD Is Awesome by The Holderness Family.
That’s right — I’ve known for a couple of years now that I have ADHD. Facebook outed me first (thank you, targeted ads), and after a long conversation with my doctor, it all began to make sense. I don’t talk about it much — no one dreams of having a diagnosis attached to their name — but it’s been a quiet, clarifying revelation.
I’ve always been the “different” one. In high school, I was the girl who worked twice as hard to keep up, filling every spare moment with art projects, AP classes, and creative rabbit holes. Decades later, not much has changed — except now I understand the rhythm of my own mind. The projects, the rearranging of rooms, the sudden inspiration at midnight… they’re not chaos. They’re how I breathe.
In my studio from 9 to 11 a.m., or on Fridays when I spend the day painting, sculpting, and listening to audiobooks, my brain quiets. That’s my peace. Doing “nothing” feels impossible — if I sit still too long, I’ll be sketching, painting, or moving furniture before you can blink. I’ve learned to embrace it. The art isn’t just my outlet — it’s my meditation.
And so this week’s hyper-focus became gilded leaves.
Project Supplies
I love trees deeply — maybe more than is reasonable. When someone cuts one down unnecessarily, I mutter tree hater! under my breath. When we first moved to the farm, there were hardly any trees at all. Over the years, we’ve planted many, and lost a few to the stubborn wind and soil. Each one feels personal.
One crisp morning, Henry and I went collecting — a leaf from every tree on the property. I pressed each one into clay, tracing its unique edges and etching in its delicate veins. (Side note: Bruce and I actually met in art school, volunteering to make clay for the entire class — only two hands shot up. That was thirty-one years ago, and we’ve been covered in art supplies ever since.)
After drying, sanding, and prepping, I gilded the leaves in shimmering gold — half with true gold leaf (a sticky, sparkling disaster of a process) and half painted with warm layers of burnt sienna, yellow, and red. The result: glowing little keepsakes that capture the essence of fall.
Right now, they hang on my Halloween tree — but after October fades, I’ll use them again. Some will adorn our Thanksgiving table, others will become gift tags or ornaments for the holiday season, tiny fragments of summer and autumn preserved through the winter months.
Maybe that’s what this season is about — keeping bits of beauty alive, in whatever way we can. Whether it’s a gilded leaf, a burst of creativity, or the way we learn to love the quirks that make us different.
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Loved this read! It really resonated with me as someone with ADHD — and I’d absolutely recommend it to anyone who wants to better understand a loved one with ADHD.