The Best Souvenir I Bring Home Isn’t in My Suitcase
Every time I travel, something unexpected happens.
I come home with new ideas, wanting to make changes.
Not in a dramatic, sell-the-house-and-move-to-Italy kind of way.
In small, quiet ways.
I rearrange a corner of my home.
I cook something I tasted on my trip.
I take a different walking route.
I linger a little longer over my morning coffee.
I even look at my paintings differently.
I’ve noticed this pattern for years, and during my recent visit to Berkeley, California, I finally understood why.
When we travel, we naturally pay attention.
Everything is unfamiliar. We notice the architecture, the way people gather, the sounds of a neighborhood, the light at different times of day, the plants growing in someone’s front yard, the conversations in a café.
We become curious.
At home, it’s easy to slip into autopilot.
We drive the same roads.
Shop at the same grocery store.
Watch the same news.
Talk to the same people.
Walk past the same tree without noticing that it has changed with the season.
Nothing is wrong with routine. It gives us stability. It’s our brain making daily life easier for us.
But familiarity can also make us stop seeing. Meeting new people. Giving us ideas.
During my stay in Berkeley, I found myself slowing down. I admired the thoughtful way my son and daughter-in-law had created their home. Every room reflected who they are. The plants weren’t simply decoration; they created a sense of calm. The art wasn’t filling empty walls; it told a story. Even our evenings felt different, long dinners in the garden, laughter, conversation, and nowhere else we needed to be.
I wandered through neighborhoods simply because they invited walking.
I spent time in museums without feeling rushed.
Standing in front of the paintings of Richard Diebenkorn, I realized something that surprised me.
Somewhere along the way, he had quietly become my favorite painter.
Not because my taste suddenly changed, but because I had taken the time to really look and understand.
That experience reminded me of something I often see in my own classes.
Beginning painters rarely struggle because they lack talent.
More often, they paint what they think they see instead of what is actually there.
A shadow isn’t simply gray.
A leaf isn’t just green and straight.
Light changes everything.
Learning to paint is, in many ways, learning to see.
Travel teaches us the very same lesson.
It invites us to slow down, become curious, and notice what has been there all along.
And perhaps that’s the greatest gift travel gives us.
Not the photographs.
Not the souvenirs.
Not even the memories.
It reminds us how to pay attention.
The beautiful part is that we don’t have to book another trip to keep that feeling alive.
We can become travelers in our own lives.
We can take a different street on our evening walk.
Sit in a different chair with our morning coffee.
Visit a museum we’ve been meaning to explore.
Look a little longer at the flowers in the garden.
Or spend time with a painting until it begins to tell us something we hadn’t noticed before.
This summer I’ll be teaching two workshops that are really about this very idea.
In my Master Mixing Color Workshop, we’ll discover how learning to see subtle shifts in color can completely transform a painting.
In Intuitive Painting, we’ll practice paying attention in a different way, not to the outside world, but to our own inner responses, trusting what wants to emerge rather than forcing an outcome.
Both are invitations to slow down and see with fresh eyes.
Perhaps that’s the greatest souvenir we can ever bring home.
A new way of looking at the life that has been waiting for us all along.
What is one familiar part of your life you could look at today as if you were seeing it for the very first time?
