§tacyReneè§weeney

biographies & short stories for all

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  • The Rhythm of a Different Drummer

    by

    Caiden Finn,

    I’ve always held high expectations for you — they were the spark that kept my own procrastination at bay. I envisioned you walking across that stage in Montgomery, graduating alongside your virtual class. But you, Caiden, have always marched to the beat of your own drum. As Thoreau once wrote, “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.”

    You were a breech baby,  and you were 6 weeks early. You came into this world on your own terms. You were a late talker, yet you could hum and sing at age one, crafting your own melodic versions of the ABCs. Even when you struggled with reading and writing, you had a spirit that couldn’t be taught.

    I dropped you off for private reading instruction with Ms. Judy, when you were ten, and when I picked you up, I mentioned how good you smelled. Keller said Ms. Judy rubbed “smart” oil on Caiden’s neck to make him smart.

    When you dreamed of a “real schoolhouse,” I told you that you were capable of more than any public school—or even I—could offer. But in my desire to see you succeed, I became “Big E.” I became the great Enabler.

    ​I managed the tolls in New York and the FAFSA forms. I handled the graduation announcements, the reset requests, the deadlines, and the credit recovery. I tracked your vaccinations, confirmed your ACT testing in Anniston, and curated your portfolios. From Kinco mittens for the snow to herbal teas for your cough, I tried to pave every inch of your road. I even let my heart be robbed of time with you when you left for New York at fifteen. I felt discombobulated when things didn’t go as planned.

    The finish line is here. Connections Academy is waiting on that final step—the CCRI exam on Monday, May 18th. This diploma isn’t just a piece of paper; it’s the closing of one chapter and the beginning of your independence. It’s a ticket to more.

    As you step into the world of business, remember to diversify—a little trading, a little drilling, a little marketing. Stay sharp, as the market moves for no one. But more importantly, stay grounded. You might think your success is born solely of your own brains, looks, or grit, but these are gifts from the Creator. Do not become so enamored with the gifts that you forget the Giver.

    When I hear “Saturday in the Park,”
    https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=HjylD7esXDo
    I see you — your movement, your song, and the way you can read my body language before I even speak. I cherish the way we laugh at the small nuances of life. Your character reflects the heart of Hebrews: “Let us be concerned for one another, to help one another to show love and to do good.”

    ​Caiden, if you ever find yourself lost, or if the world feels too heavy, do not hesitate to turn back. The promise of Jesus is that He will never leave you nor forsake you, and neither will I.

    May you find the balance between the independence you’ve fought for and the grace you’ve been given. https://m.youtube.com/shorts/D5SyEe5oGZU You are no longer the boy who needed “smart oil” on his neck; you are a man standing on the precipice of a vast world. Walk into it with your head high, your heart open, and your own drum beating loud and clear.

    ​I am so proud of the man you have become.

    Love, Mom

  • JOYFUL DISCOVERY

    by

    ,

    I remember being in these rooms for a number of years.
    I was in the rooms, 
    but I didn’t have anything to give back.
    I just drank the coffee, 
    ate the donuts, 
    and talked the talk,
    because I hadn’t had that spiritual experience yet.
    I hadn’t done the steps.

    In the chapter, The Doctor’s Opinion, Dr. Silkworth writes
    …”they found something that had depth and weight.”

    And you can hear that in a speaker, when they have something that has depth and weight in their sobriety. They’ve got something to give away. Joyful discoveries are in direct proportion to how much I give away. One begets the other.

    God keeps supplying that “gold,” making my joy full. If I start to hold on to that, then I lose that joyful discovery. I only get to be part of that joyful discovery when I am part of the cycle of sobriety and recovery. I’m giving it away @@@ I’m supplied @@@ I’m giving it away @@@ I’m supplied.

    Before, we only had a common heartache, and a common headache, and now we have a common fellowship. and we are like these little nuggets of fine gold, and there is a gold rush
    going on.

    §t a cy§ween ne y

  • Shepherd

    by

    ,

    I’m going south. It’s my favorite direction. So, as soon as I moved south from Knoxville, TN, to Atlanta in 2003, I had two interviews at the Shephard Center as a triage nurse for The Andrew C. Carlos Multiple Sclerosis Institute. I was not hah-d, and so I went next door to work at Piedmont Hospital. That was my on ramp to Georgia.

    I don’t want to forget all the construction zones going on at Shepherd because it was a visual analogy of the renovations taking place on our bodies. Therapy was like that construction site because I have to tear down old, unsafe structures before I can build a stable, new foundation.

    Thirty-five new Acute Brain Injury (ABI) beds and therapy gym, 42 new MS Institute Universal rooms and psychology offices, a new Marcus building that houses the pain clinic, the seating clinic. the technology clinic, the driving clinic, and a total of 105,000 square feet renovated. The ultimate goal of this construction is a substantial expansion of the outpatient MS Institute. I’m a lost ball in high weeds.

    My life’s not going well. For three weeks straight in April 2026, I’m participating in the Shepherd Center’s Integrated Therapy Program (ITP) for people liviń with multiple sclerosis (MS). This was one month after an active brain lesion was detected on MRI scans in March. Sorry to have to tell you that, but that’s what’s going on in my life. Yesterday and the day before was as good as it gets.

    The Shepherd Center provides the best quality programming in the nation, from spinal cord injury, traumatic brain injury, stroke, multiple traumas, and multiple sclerosis to chronic pain.

    Most disappointing of all, my ability to drive has been thrown out for discussion in counseling, and I’m scheduled for a driving evaluation in June. Triggers to fight were sticking up on me like the quills of a porcupine that
    busted my bubble.

    Nightly LifeStar landings on the roof of Piedmont Hospital were easily viewed from my bedroom window. Could that be an omnious warning that to drive is to injure myself and others?

    Everything has been given to me — from the walls of the Woodruff Family Residence apartment to all the good that’s beiń done in the background of my life.

    The first two problems identified right off the bat were that I was unsafe from my lack of balance and I was wasting a lot of energy wall surfiń. So, we drove over to the island of lost toys to pick up a power chair. My fortè is not sightseeing while operating the power chair, and they are hard as heck to push when they run out of juice.

    I’m liviń in a framework of support and generosity that I didn’t build myself. Many generous philanthropists provided the buildings, the apartments, the landscaping, the programs, and on and on. The therapists provided the tools, the counselor donated an ear, God Almighty provided the breath, and I pitched in the discipline of my mind, which is not so hot. Apparently, my processing speed is delayed. So, it might be a year be-fo-wah I respond.

    Every blessing carries a responsibility to carry through what I’ve been taught, and I think there are just a ton of blessings I don’t even realize. 

    Right now, my responsibility to carry through simply means showing up for therapy at the
    MS Wellness and Therapy gym, which is conviently located downstairs, at eight in the morning to four in the afternoon. Integrated therapy is a full-time job.

    There is a persistent pressure moving me toward the next level of therapy, from a place of fatigue to a high-velocity environment of movement.

    The equipment feels heavy, and the back to back scheduling feels overwhelming, like a water gush from a fire hydrant rather than a drop of molasses oozing from a spoon. This intensity is the persistent pressure moving me toward the next level of therapy – accelerated!

    The Integrated Therapy Program is a literal village of people — rehabilitation doctors, physical therapists, speech therapists, occupational therapists, exercise physiologists, case managers, counselors and social workers — all working to recalibrate my way of functioning.

    Intensive therapy @ Shepherd
    is that feeliń of being stripped down to the studs,
    the bare bones of nothing, like Gideon the Israelite and Rembrandt’s c. 1655, ink on paper, Skeleton Rider.
    https://stacyreneesweeney.com/2024/05/21/skeleton-rider/

    Evaluations were a big gash to my ego. I’m just not as good as I thought I was. And so to have the physical therapist, Caitlyn, stabalize my feet with her hands and guide my gait with precision was exactly what I needed. I’ve been walkiń on tip-toes since my first steps.
    https://stacyreneesweeney.com/2016/08/12/tiptoe/

    The key to walkiń flat footed was just beneath my feet. Caitlyn put in the extra mile and made my experience so worthwhile. I’m talkiń about becoming my own home, and I want to be a mansion, all glorious within and out.
    And this is the most important moment. Do you know about this? I look good in latex.

    While I feel like my life is beiń renovated, the construction site is a mess. Feelińs of frustration fall from my face often. The therapeutic equipment and the Swiss exercise balls aren’t just clutter. They are the scaffolding for my safer level of walkiń. 

    When my routine, my physical space, and even the way I move my body are overhauled all at once, it’s a total system shock. Sometimes, the shock of intensive therapy — the parallel bars, the braces, the exhaustion — is actually the exit ramp from my original brainwreck. It feels upside down, ah reckon, because I’m finally being turned right side up.

    §tacy §weeney

  • Account of Gratitude

    by

    , ,

    This small oil painting can scarcely square our account of gratitude towards you. We appreciation all you have done for our family; more than words or art can express.

    Margaret & Kevin Johnson “Peaches”

    Stacy Sweeney | 2022 | Peaches | Oil on Panel | 12″x16″

    Anne & Peter Hennessey “Italian Lemon”

    Stacy Sweeney | 2024 | Italian Lemon | Oil on Panel | 11″x14″

    §tacy & Rustin Sweeney

  • A Tribute to Carolyn Caswell: An Opener of Doors

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    , , ,

    This is a collection of memories that capture the essence of a friendship rooted in both the tranquility of the charming coastal atmosphere and the shared discipline of art.

    I brainstormed all week since I found out that Carolyn Caswell passed away from breathing difficulties. She was 94. This shuffle of life has always been present, but now it feels much like a stacked deck of cards. My unspoken, constant thought is “Which of us may be the next?” 

    ​A Life of Light and Color:

    ​The news of Carolyn Caswell’s passing brings with it a familiar, yet heavy, reflection on the “shuffle of life.” It feels, in this moment, like a stacked deck of cards, prompting the quiet, unspoken question: Which of us may be the next?

    Summer Days At East Beach

    ​In the summers of 2014 and 2015, Carolyn and Mr. Caswell opened more than just their home; they opened a world of memory for my family on the largest of Georgia’s Golden Isles. Their beach house at 4206 11th St. on Saint Simons Island became the backdrop for some of our most cherished moments.

    ​I can still see the boys selling seashells by the seashore and pouring homemade lemonade for passersby. I remember the excitement of shark fishing around Shark Tooth Island and the quiet awe of seeing Spanish Moss hanging elegantly from the Live Oaks at Fort Frederica Park. These were days punctuated by the simple joy of sharing the best pizza on the beach at Sal’s and the fellowship found at the AA clubhouse.

    ​The Artist’s Connectiom

    ​Carolyn was a fellow artist, a watercolorist whose soul was visible in the work she shared on her holiday cards. Our bond was forged in the studio; she was the one who walked me into Chris DiDomizio’s Art School in Sandy Springs, a gesture that changed my creative life. It felt only appropriate to gift her with my first watercolor of two bananas that she had framed at Binders Art Supplies and Frames.

    ​We once gifted her a framed watercolor by Dylan Scott Pierce — a piece she kept until the season of life required her to downsize to assisted living. When she returned it to us, it felt less like a returned gift and more like a passing of the torch.

    ​A Search and Rescue Mission

    ​For me, art and nursing have always been two sides of the same coin, “a search and rescue mission,” for my soul. As Carolyn knew well, art allows us to draw on a deep sense of meaning, providing the bonus of quiet fulfillment.

    Being an artist sustains a spiritual connection so vast that the movement itself can not suffer, disappear, or die. Through Carolyn’s friendship and my own practice, I have been sustained emotionally, intellectually, and financially in ways that are hard to overstate.

    Carolyn Caswell understood that while breathing may fail, the “breath” of a life lived through art and kindness does not. She was an opener of doors— to beach houses, to art schools, and to the heart. Though the deck of cards has been shuffled once more, the memories of those Saint Simons summers remain, bright and permanent, as a fresh wash of watercolor.

    ​I plan to refresh my own watercolor supplies and attend an intensive watercolor workshop with Dylan Pierce in May for some extra watercolor fun and inspiration as I prepare to create a new piece in Carolyn’s honor. Yet, even in the face of such loss, we look back at the vibrant colors Carolyn added to the canvas of our lives.

    §tacy §weeney

  • A Tribute to Randall Allen: A Harvest of Goodwill

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    This is a collection of memories. I brainstormed all week and put down in words what I wanted to say to Randall Allen (9/10/59—2/22/2026), but I probably wouldn’t have been able to make it through two sentences. And sometimes, when I get into that emotional place, the best thing I can do is to get outside, whatever the weather. This tribute paints a picture of a man whose generosity wasn’t just an act but a state of being. If there were a stipulation to “No, the dead know nothing,” it would be “except at their memorial to hear their tributes.”

    ○○○ A Tribute to Randall Allen: A Harvest of Goodwill ○○○

    The Shadow and the Light

    ​I have often asked myself: When will Randall’s goodwill expire? Our journey with Randall and Pam Allen is marked by the celestial and the terrestrial. On August 21, 2017, the Total Solar Eclipse plunged the world into six minutes and twenty-three seconds of astonishing darkness. For our family, that day marked a transition — the move from God’s Farm to Randall Allen’s Farm.

    God’s Farm: The Beginning of a History

    When will Randall’s goodwill expire? Our history with the Allens began in 2016 in Carroll County, GA, at God’s Farm. I remember the first time we met Randall; he arrived with his daughter, Sophia, and a crew of ten tree planters from Honduras to clear property for us. It was my birthday. We made Salt Spring Tacos in the camp kitchen for everyone, and we ate in the camp pavillion. His crew sang “Happy Birthday” to me in Spanish. But that was just the beginning of our walk together. From that moment, his spirit of service was clear.

    The Church: A Faithful Affirmation

    When will Randall’s goodwill expire? To think of Pam and Randall is to think of the church. Randall and Pam purchased and donated the property used to build our new church building in March 2024 https://stacyreneesweeney.com/2024/03/03/hagia-sophia.                   Randall had an eye for choosing land and land development. He was the head elder and the “last man standing” at every potluck — the same man who would bring potato salad made with fresh eggs from his own beautiful hen house.

    ​I remember his Sabbath School teachings and the meaningful true stories he shared. He’d always deliver something amazing. The story I remember most was the 2018 rescue of twelve boys and their coach from the Tham Luang cave in Thailan. The expert rescuers determined that the only viable option for survival was for the boys and coach to be unconscious and carried out by experienced divers. The true story is a meaningful allegory to consider.

    As a new Seventh Day Adventist, I once made a comment on the call to worship f ound in Revelation 14:7. Randall looked at me and said, “I believe the same thing.” For a believer like Randall, this doctrine wasn’t about fear; it was about the vindication of God’s character and the promise that God is making all things right. It was just one of those small things, but it stuck with me. I believe he was an angel.


    It was a profound affirmation, something that bonded us. He had this extraordinary ability to lift up those around him, always attuned to what others needed. He could make anyone feel like the best version of themselves. He didn’t have to do those things. But he always did. And that was his magic.

    I dreamed about Randall, at least a dozen times. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because he was an angel. Maybe it was scripture. Maybe it was because he accompanied my boys to  Medellin, Columbia to Rionegro, Columbia to
    Melgar, Columbia to Manizales Columbia to Ibague, Columbia to Peru to the Amazon to San Andres, Columbia to
    Belize City. Belize on a two week mission trip in January, 2023. I monitored their live flight tracking on the FlightAware app.

    To fly across massive bodies of water to another country, to be involved in something bigger than themselves, to be channels of Gods working was a positive experience all around. I felt need of divine help in praying constantly for their safety and provision and return home.

    The Allen Farm: A Sanctuary of Peace

    When will Randall’s goodwill expire? We were always invited to the steady exchange, to the dedication of staying connected, and of breaking bread together at his home on holidays and special Sabbaths. The real joy was always in the sharing. When asked what he would miss most about playing basketball for Boston College, the athlete put his head down to cry and said, “Going out to eat.”

    From the window of our second-story barn apartment, I would watch for his truck, often loaded with new farm equipment and side-by-sides.

    On Sabbath afternoons, he would take my husband and boys to ride 4-wheelers through the Chattahoochee National Forest bordering his farm.

    He didn’t just share his land; he shared his life. He told us we could live there until Jesus returned. I believed he was an angel. We lived on the Allen Farm for two years.

    UCLife: The Artist of Foundations

    When will Randall’s goodwill expire? Randall was an artist whose medium was the earth and stone, his tools a palette and palette knife. When he laid the block foundation for our bunkhouse in March 2023, he worked with the precision of a painter, wearing his hat backward and his signature white t-shirt. He must have wore a new t-shirt every day in order to keep that shirt white, or maybe he was an angel.

    He loaned us his excavator, in November 2024, letting my boys, Caiden and Keller, sharpen their skills of operating heavy machinery for our wells and driveways.

    His support for Urban Community Life was unmatched. Out of 50 donations in 2025, Pam and Randall gave three times. That generosity still moves me.
    I had just sent out a batch of hand painted watercolor thank-you cards on Friday, February 20, 2026. I never knew how timely those final words of gratitude would be.

    Unambiguous Loss

    ​When will Randall’s goodwill expire? ​In many ways, a heart attack was a fitting way for Randall to leave us — not because it’s the leading cause of death, not because death comes to all, but he simply had a full and thankful heart. He loved unconditionally and without expectation.

    Losing Randall is an unambiguous loss during an already difficult season. But as we keep walking, we lean on the promise that the God of Resurrection sees our faithfulness, even in winter when the ground is cold and hard and wet, and you can see your breath.

    We remember that seeds must die for flowers to arrive and that things buried will ultimately come back. An Easter harvest is on the horizon. “The dawn will rise, weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning,”
    //Psalm 30:5

    This week, the early spring snowdrops and daffodils are well supplied in the pastures and along Gore-Subligna Road. They stand as a silent guard for a man who was always helping others, regardless of his own burdens. “I Believe in Spring Time” by John Rutter and The Cambridge Singers sing with me like a musical memory point, one that plays mental scenes of springtime, giving me a memory of the kind of love that I never imagined possible, the love that transformed my very ordinary life into something extraordinary.

    “I believe in springtime: fresh and new and bright;
    I believe in morning dew and shining morning light
    I believe in sunbeams, melting all the snow;
    And I believe when winter’s done
    The streams will run and rivers flow
    I believe in eagles soaring up so high;
    I believe in trees and mountains reaching to the sky
    I believe in green things; all the gifts of earth;
    Growing up from tiny seeds that spring has brought to birth
    I believe in summer; I believe in fall:
    But most of all I believe in God
    Who made it and blessed it all
    I believe in people, living all as one;
    Sharing all their songs and laughter, happiness and fun;
    I believe in friendship: taking time to care;
    And feeling sure of someone else
    And someone feeling glad you’re there
    Then I start to wonder how it all might be
    If the world could live together just like you and me
    I believe in hoping; I believe in prayer;
    I believe in trying hard and learning how to share
    I believe in dreaming; and, when dreams are through
    Then I believe in trusting God
    To help me make dreams come true”
    https://open.spotify.com/track/7a0XKO1PIj4ryRLSxh1beg

    The Door Held Open

    The last time I saw him was last Sabbath. True to his nature, he was holding the door to the Sanctuary open for me. He was always opening doors and always a step ahead of me, and I was more than happy to let him lead the way. I believe he was an angel.

    Our family loved Randall Allen deeply. He is no longer running his race. His earthly goodwill finally expired on Sunday, February 22, 2026 — but the seeds he buried in our hearts will bloom, find their way to the light, and show their smile.

    I am preparing to create an original 20″x30″ art piece in Randall’s honor to be hung in our new church lobby. He and Pam were instrumental in making worship a reality.

    When I want color to explode, I use transparent colors like Burnt Sienna, SAP, Viridian and Thaylo blue. Trasparents work when surrounded by opaques or vice versa – an opaque white boat in transarent blue-green water.

    This not only creates high contrast in value but also adds depth and dimensionality to the painting through the interplay between thick and thin paint, an irrededescent quality that seem to change when seen from different angles and as the painting ages.

    And I still can’t believe he’s not here to enjoy the sight and inhale the fragrance of the daffodills. The pain of losing Randall would make it palpable, but as the old saying goes, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” // Alfred, Lord Tennyson

    §tacy §weeney

  • A Tribute to Allan K: The Jumping Off Place

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    Our friend Allan lived alone. I think nobody should live alone. Nobody. It’s putting your life at risk. I think of the classic comedy film of 1943, “The More the Merrier,” where three single people live together – it was messy, but merry.

    When I was drinking, I felt a perceived lack of control, but sober I feel a real lack of control over the things that could happen, stuff I can’t share about in meetings, stuff that might prevent a newcomer from getting sober.

    “We could make a hell of a topic: Suicide of the week, execution of the week, terrorist of the week, I love it. Suicides, assassinations, mad bombers, mafia hit men, automobile smash up, the death hour, great Sunday night show for the whole family, we’ll wipe Disney right off the air” 
    // 1976 drama, “Network,” directed by Sidney Lumont

    Allen K. was a tortured soul. Someone stole his identity. I’m not surprised of his suicide. Suicide can happen. It’s always up in your face, a fear driven thing from my experience. Samantha brought this topic up a year ago, how her 8th grade student committed suicide.

    Drinking alcoholically is a suicide attempt in itself. What about swinging on the branches of a tree to hang yourself? What about the pigs that ran off the cliff? What about mental health tune ups and hitting the pause button? If I can put some distance between my feelings and my reaction, then my hope is to gain clarity and perspective on the situation. I don’t understand much except for me to drink — is to die.

    Allan K. forgot his primary purpose, to carry the message of AA to the next suffering alcoholic. He forgot how to use the 10,000lb telephone where another alcoholic could talk him off the ledge. Stay connected, stay protected. This is a dire warning for alcoholics.

    Business failure, insanity, fatal illness, suicide – these calamities embitter and depress me. Though I’m profoundly thankful for the three years of friendship we shared that shaped me and taught me how to show up and listen and chair an AA ZOOM meeting, Our Common Welfare.

    He was beginning to enlarge his spiritual life. He would text me to say, “great job today, meeting went well,” I was beginning to be competitive with his topics, especially the topic, financial insecurity, when the screen lit up with yellow hands like when Elf lit up all the buttons on the elevator. He would end his shares with his signature closing, “The possibility of a good day does exist.”

    Not today. How are you? Not dead.

    §tacy §weeney

  • What a Water Fast Feels Like

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    What a Water Fast Feels Like

    Sargent | The Fountain, Villa Torlonia, Frascati, Italy | 1907 | Oil on canvas | 714 x 565 cms | 281 x 222 1/4 ins | Art Institute of Chicago | Chicago, United States

    What a Water Fast Feels Like

    Here I am on a self-induced hunger fast. Why? To see how far I can go, like a long jump.

    24 Hours Fasting:

    Tuesday @ 7 P.M. — Wednesday 7 P.M., was day # 1, and I was grinding my teeth. Piña Colada smoothies from Yellow Deli in Chattanooga was tempting. I almost compromised, but I didn’t want that feeling of regret, like when I desperately eat a black bean chalupa from Taco Bell.

    48 Hours Fasting:

    Wednesday 7 P.M. — Thursday  7 P.M., was day # 2, and I was halfway there. I felt weak and hypoglycemic, so I loaded my lancet tool to prick my trembling finger for blood. My blood sugar level — 73. Low enough. I shared a cup of chia tea latte with myself.

    72 Hours Fasting:

    Thursday 7 P.M. — Friday 7 P.M. was  day # 3, and I had a lot more time in my day to write, paint, and sleep to pass the time away. Not to plan, prepare, consume, or pay for food was more liberating than I imagined. Opening and shutting the refrigerator door for security reasons soothed something. Seven was bedtime, so I could suppress my hunger a little longer.

    84 Hours Fasting:

    Friday 7 P.M. — Saturday 7 A.M. — into day # 4, and I went to bed with a headache on an empty stomach. I broke my fast the next morning with a plate of peaches. I didn’t feel hungry, but I ate any way for social reasons, proving I don’t need much of anything.

    §tacy §weeney, RN

  • Love Reflecting

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    Sargent | Patio de los Arraybyanes in the Alhambra | 1879

    My father is not guilty of self-love, so it was no great surprise when he told me he had throat cancer. I was angry, but I had to drop the word “blame” from my speech and thought.

    I stressed to him at lunch that he was still in the land of the living because the words throat and cancer were never on the table. I have to interrogate him to get the truth. In fact, the doctor discussed my father’s initial esophageal biopsy, which showed Barret’s esophagus and esophageal dysplasia. That was two years ago, which is his way of dealing with life that screens him from reality only momentarily.

    Only by prayer did my father call last night with good news. His more extensive biopsies of throat, lung, and upper GI came back (-) for cancer. He’s steadily been killing himself for fifty yeas, but there’s nothing wrong with him!!

    Here’s the thing, the way we tell our story is indicative of how we truly see the people in our lives.

    me, dad, baby Caiden Finn | 2008 | Tennessee Aquarium | Chattanooga, TN

    LOVE REFLECTING

    I woke up this morning 
    to a series of text
    of a drama unfolding 
    in my household

    I am someone who is striving 
    to do the next right thing 
    a compass point or 
    yellow star that I steer toward

    dreams keep me moving forward
    just a dull, no color feeling 
    sets me off on a journey 
    trying to fill the empty

    I was deficient 
    in every way feasible
    and anything anyone said to me I couldn’t hear
    because I was full of fear

    short-term solutions 
    nothing more substantive 
    than the artifacts all around
    disturbances that surround

    《 if I can’t manage love of self
    《 then I’ll love you in my midst
    《 and I’ll see the love reflecting 
    《 off of you, onto me

    thinking a great deal 
    of taking time to reflect
    on my underlying condition
    most of them old business

    I was in a big wake
    with plenty of room, where other waves
    didn’t matter
    whatever waves I made were minimal

    it’s now about well-being 
    so I unpack my baggage
    to find out what’s inside
    I picked it up and turned it out into the light

    how difficult it is to truly connect
    even with those who are close
    in a waiting room where I’m exposed
    to that kind of love

    a single stem in a vase 
    makes an arrangement
    as I approach the intersection
    I expect the light to turn green

    《 if I can’t manage love of self
    《 then I’ll love you in my midst
    《 and I’ll see the love reflecting 
    《 off of you, onto me

    §tacyReneé§weeney

  • Red Poppies South of France

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    Stacy Sweeney | Red Poppies after Monet | Feb 2025 | Oil on Strathmore oil painting paper linen finish 215 lbs | 9″x12″ | Original photograph by Chris diDomizio

    I chose a tetratic color scheme, 2 sets of compliments, Red-Green and Red-Blue, and I lowered the intensity of red, blue and green with complimentary grays. It’s psychologically so exciting. All elements of art are present in this one hour study of working the problems out on the original photograph: color, texture, contrast, shape, and pattern. Poppies paint a path, reading left to right,

    “Kisses for Sale.”