I moved to the outskirts of Sydney, Australia in late January (so blame my lack of writing on a shift in continents and hemispheres). I hadn’t planned on coming here. Australia had never been a dream, though traveling and experiencing new places has always been a love. The door opened very quickly for me, and once I decided to step through it, the entire process of getting here felt a little like walking on clouds.

I think that those of us who have adventurous spirits secretly like the idea of leaving everything behind. We have this glamorous picture of starting fresh in a new place, where people are different, scenery is different and (in my case) there are hundreds of white, sandy beaches beckoning.

What I’ve learned in just a few weeks, though, is that no matter where I am (living weightlessly on the moon or studying in beautiful Australia), I’ll always be Leora. I will always originally be from West Texas. I will always be the daughter of a teacher and businessman, the granddaughter of a seamstress and sheriff and 11 months older than my very tall brother. I will always have memories of desert thunderstorms and swimming with catfish in natural springs. I will always be the girl who cut her hair down to an inch and dyed it white, then purple when turning 18. And I’ll always be the girl who quit her job, sold her possessions and moved from Colorado Springs, CO to eastern Australia to study music at Hillsong’s Leadership College in 2008 (a school and church I’d only just learned existed a few months prior to getting on the 16 hour flight).

Moving overseas and leaving friends/family behind hasn’t changed me. Seeing the opposite shores of the Pacific Ocean hasn’t transformed my life or sanded off all my rough edges. And having the rare opportunity to make a thousand first impressions all over again hasn’t prompted me to come up with new ways of introducing myself. I still just say, “Hi. I’m Leora. It’s nice to meet you.”

It took me moving across the planet to realize that the quality of my life is most dependent on my perspective and how I step into and move around in my tomorrows (not where I am). I’ll always be Leora. Right now, I’m Leora in Australia. And from my perspective, it’s absolutely beautiful here.

Recently, a friend of mine asked if I’d be willing to do a surprise painting for her husband (they were celebrating their first anniversary and Christmas). Trying to capture another person’s tastes, visions and opinions in a few brush strokes on canvas challenged me. Usually, I let my whims dictate my art, so my work can be moody and ever-changing in direction. This time, I needed to figure out how to balance my own tastes with all I know about another person. The emphasis, of course, being sans Leora.

Painting for Andy turned into one of my favorite projects. I realized how much more fun it is to paint for others (no, not paint by numbers… paint for others). Mainly because you’re asked to step outside of yourself, to think way less about what you love and much more about how to please another person. I think that’s where creativity can really shine–when you aim to capture the hearts of other people with your work.

Here’s Andy’s painting (sideways):

This afternoon all of the stars in my interesting little pocket of universe unexpectedly collided. I resurrected all of my childhood beliefs that good things (great things!) can happen to me for no reason.

It can be hard, at times, to feel like this ordered world we live in still dishes out gifts that we haven’t worked for. As a cake-breathed kid, my love-rich environment conditioned me to assume that a trip to the zoo was a toothless grin away and dessert before dinner was just natural. I had no qualms about asking for an extra squirt of flavor in my coconut snowcone, even though I hadn’t paid for it. And a trip to the Wickett, Texas swimming pool was a sure thing every summer afternoon at 4pm, no matter how good or bad my brother and I had been earlier in the day. (Maybe our punishment for bad behavior was having to wear a stripe of bright green zink-oxide down the bridges of our noses). Life was a lot simpler then and, like a lot of kids, I was born with rose-tinted glasses intact.

Post-college, though, real life quickly introduced herself to me. As an artist, that “introduction” was especially hard to stomach. When I painted stick figures for my parents, they gave me a quarter. Now, when I spend months painting and showing my work, I’ve learned to expect some negative (and even worse, some apathetic) reactions. Gifts and praise are not freely given. They’re earned. It’s harder for me to ask for an extra squirt of coconut flavoring in my snowcone without having a dollar bill tucked away in my back pocket just in case.

Maybe that realism shifted a little to idealism this afternoon.

Out of the blue, we got a call that the Soiled Dove (a great little venue in Denver) had upgraded our tickets to the Over the Rhine show taking place this coming Saturday evening. We were told by someone named Chris M. that we were going to be given a special table, front and center with our very own nameplate for the show.

We called and asked Chris M. why we’d somehow won the music lottery without ever having to gamble on a ticket. His response was kind and also kind of suspicious/secretive. “Well, we sometimes just do that for guests.” But, our very own nameplate? At a venue we’ve never visited before? Weird.

And also wonderful. You see, earlier this morning I spent a good 15 minutes daydreaming about Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist, the songbirds behind the band name. I first learned of OtR about 3 years ago. My first song (akin to a first kiss really) was “Latter Days.” For me, the lyrics helped to edify my belief that there will always be glimmers of beauty in the worst kinds of pain. And Karin’s voice. O h, t h a t v o i c e. . .

Hearing Karin sing is as close as I think I’ll ever get to hearing an angel and this Saturday evening I get to sit inches away from this muse. Should I try and probe to see why we were called and told we will be treated like royalty this weekend? Rather than find out there were just extra seats and we got the long straw, I think I’ll just assume that this is one of many upcoming encounters with grace. I will try to take some pictures at the show. After all, I’ll probably have the best view in the house.

It is so much more fun to be an idealist than a realist anyway.