Suzette's Faves

While hiking, I saw a crow so I painted the crow's personality

Lindsey's prompt: Dining room

Forsythia is in full bloom, and the cherries, magnolia, and dogwoods are next. Spring is here!

I messed up a gradient layer but I love this result

A young elf is interrupted during her meditation.

estoy de vuelta con los retos de semana y la temática de esta ocasión son los personajes de confort, empezando con esta puercaespín llena de caspa que es algo cobarde y que se asusta con facilidad llamada flaky

A cute bonsai character with a fierce expression holds two swords, wearing an orange martial arts outfit and a headband with a red symbol. Its head is stylized as a bonsai tree, with vibrant green foliage, set against a dynamic red background and the words "BANZAI BONSAI!" above.

“And of all the things on earth you could draw, you drew a carton of strawberry milk?” “Heck yes”

TW!!!

I am an art teacher with a master’s degree—trained by brilliant professors who believed that art could do more than decorate walls. I offer safe spaces for teenagers to grow—nourishing soil where their imaginations can take root. And yet… I am assigned to hallway duty. This is compulsory education, after all. So I sit—posted like a sentinel—watching young lives stream past. “Get to class,” I say with a smile and a nudge. The system wants attendance; I’m hungry for presence. Armed not with a whistle or clipboard, but with a pen— my scribble’s soft insurgency. The hallway stretches out like a geometric hymn. Columns and corners chant structure. Teenagers swirl past—half-formed galaxies of limbs and laughter— their orbits chaotic, their gravity pulling time forward. I begin to draw. Not their tardiness, but their motion. A shoulder. A blur of sneakers. A tilted head chasing freedom. Feet flickering like seconds. Each mark a pulse. Each smudge a breath. My paper becomes a seismograph of seeing— trembling gently through the mundane. This isn’t about making art for a frame or a feed. It’s about refusing to leak away in the fluorescent hum of obligation. It’s a quiet mutiny against the clock. I do this on long car rides, too (passenger side, mind you). Letting the lines grow wild, jagged, and unapologetic. Not for polish— but for presence. This is how I remember I’m still alive. Still growing. Still watching. Still choosing to see. Because sometimes mental health looks like a piece of scrap paper, a moving pen, and the simple, sacred act of marking time with wonder.

Somewhere out there are a bunch of butterflies having a conversation about whether they've ever landed on a human, and one of them says "Yeah, it's an acquired taste."