I heard myself this morning say I needed to "flesh out" the details of a plan, and I couldn’t help but think about how I used to think the phrase was “flush out.” I’m not the only one who thought that, right? 

Where did 'flesh out' come from, I wondered? 

Turns out, the phrase "flesh out" finds its origin in artist studios, where classical painters would literally build the flesh out on a portrait. 

They’d begin with intentional, angular strokes - stark lines mapping the skeleton beneath. Their brushes would move with certainty here, establishing the fundamental structure of the object of their art. 

Then would come the muscles - broader, more forceful strokes laid down in purposeful layers, building the structure that would support everything to follow. 

As they moved toward the flesh, their touch would shift. Their grip would lighten and shift, and the brush would take on a more gentle action displaying sweeps and delicate taps. 

It reminds me of my first solo outing in Montana - a painting class that gave me the experience of fleshing out a cow portrait.

Starting with nothing more than a carbon paper trace, I was honestly in awe at the way we layered strokes of color until sure enough, the ghostly outline took shape into a recognizable cow. Layer by layer, stroke by stroke, that cow emerged from the canvas, gaining dimension and life with each pass of my brush. 

So here I am, 2 months into this journey in Montana, and I can’t help but think about how this is its own fleshing out process.

My Skeleton Stage

The 30 days I lived off Swan Lake- it was more like a vacation. A time for pure recovery mode after the massive undoing that was leaving Ohio. Every sold possession, every goodbye to neighbors and friends, every single ending had taken a piece of me with it. 

So these first stark lines of existence were exactly what they needed to be: Sleep. Read. Lake. Repeat.

A beautiful void.

A necessary emptiness.

Like a snake shedding its skin, or a butterfly dissolving in its chrysalis, I wasn't really building anything yet - I was simply allowing myself to be undone.

To be reformed.

These were my "let everything go" days, and that was precisely what I needed.

My Muscle Phase

Moving to my permanent place after the first month in Montana brought the real burn of building new strength.

Every limitation of the new living space became a personal trainer in disguise:

• the well water that turned my hair brittle and my skin angry
• the single sink with no dishwasher that mocked my former conveniences
• the carpet that challenged everything I knew about truly clean spaces

I found myself caught in a constant push-pull between who I wanted to be (the minimalist mountain woman who needed nothing) and who I'd been (the girl whose bones remembered comfort and control). 

Each adaptation felt like a new muscle forming - painful, resistant, necessary.

Some days the growth was graceful: water filters, countertop dishwasher, new cleaning routines.

Other days it was raw: wrestling with the reality of no private yard for Finn or me, learning to live with surfaces I couldn't sanitize to my standards, accepting that some comforts aren't luxuries but scaffolding for sanity.

Building strength isn't always about powering through - sometimes it's about finding the balance between adaptation and honoring your own needs. This was not an easy wrestle for me to navigate. But I've made it through and I'm now very comfy in this place. Some of the limitations I've adapted to. Others I addressed by purchasing solutions. It is what it is.

The Flesh Begins

This is where I am now, and it's teaching me something surprising about synchronicity. In Michigan, the internal and external worked in perfect harmony - each outer discovery sparked an inner revelation, each internal shift found immediate expression in the world around me. It was pure magic. Elation. Joy. Growth. I was a walking, talking, vibrating, obviously happy person there.

Montana? She's teaching me a different kind of dance. The same internal work is happening - watching my reactions, examining beliefs, observing how my established frameworks meet new realities. But this time, there's no immediate external validation, no perfect mirroring between inner and outer worlds. It's like dancing with a partner who's intentionally out of sync, teaching me something about rhythm I haven't yet grasped.

My dissonance with this lack of thrill, elation, joy, and overwhelming soul-filled passion is probably what an inexperienced and impatient artist must feel, rushing to add new colors before the underlying layers have dried. 

But transformation, like certain stages of painting, doesn't always come quickly. Sometimes it's in those quiet moments between brush strokes, where you're just watching the paint settle into the canvas. Where you're letting each layer dry completely before adding the next. Where you're studying how the light hits what you've created so far, neither loving nor hating it, just noticing. 

And somehow, that patient observation is becoming the art itself. I'm here for it. It's quite the contrast to my Michigan experience, but I'm not bailing. I'm here to learn what's in this strange period of neutrality.

The Emergence

When painters begin building skin tones, they work in translucent layers that gradually build depth and vitality. They don't know exactly how their subject will emerge, but they trust the process of layering, watching, adjusting. One day, they'll know their subject embodies purposeful vitality.

I find myself in a similar space of open possibility. If I'm honest - and that's really all I can be from this place of neutral observation - I don't know if Montana is where my full emergence will happen.

Maybe this chapter is more about providing contrast and perspective, a necessary phase of fleshing out my own preferences and understanding. Like an artist using shadow to define light, perhaps Montana's role is to clarify rather than conclude.

Or maybe - and this possibility remains just as open - life here will suddenly bloom into something that surprises and delights me. Something that transforms neutral observation into full blown glory and future-visioning. I'm holding both possibilities with equal lightness.

The only thing I know for certain is that even on the most bland of days, these mountains pull from somewhere deep within me an emphatic "Gah! It's so beautiful!" And maybe that's enough certainty for now - this one true thing in the midst of all this patient watching and waiting.

The Soul Spark

Artists speak of a profound moment when their painting suddenly possesses vitality. It's not just about the technical perfection - the way light catches the skin or how accurately they've captured form. It's something more intangible. They say you'll walk into your studio and feel your painting watching you. That it begins to hold its own space, and tell its own story. 

While I've been experimenting with my life, seeking meaning between place and purpose, a deeper truth has clearly emerged. 

Single Jenn has already painted her masterpiece. She's explored every corner of independent life with bold, beautiful strokes. Bought the house, learned the how-to-install-a-dishwasher stuff, started the business, wrote the book, explored and journeyed in a way that only single life can allow, sold the house, moved across the country, now reestablishing a new business. I’ve done everything I ever wanted to as an artist of solo perspective. 

The completion of this new canvas I'm now living, it seems, awaits a different kind of artistry altogether - one that comes alive in partnership, in shared creation, in the magic of two complete souls painting something entirely new together.

I think this is the spark that will make the place suddenly feel alive to me and through me. The component that will enable the Emergence phase to really take shape.

In Michigan I was coming into partnership with myself for the first time in my life. That's why the spark was so easy to experience day in and day out.

Here, I'm in the phase where the paint is drying, awaiting the expression of the next great masterpiece of my life: my co-artist. It's not always the most exciting, but it's foundationally paramount to the end result. And I'm here for it.