Carrying Forward

The holidays felt different this year. Not bad, not broken — just… less full. There’s an unmistakable quiet that settles in when someone who shaped the rhythm of your life is no longer here to anchor it. My mother, Carol, passed in December, and stepping into the season without her was a new kind of navigation. A softer one. A slower one. Just… lesser.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we hold the people we love after they’re gone. How we carry their lessons, their quirks, their ways of loving. And how those things continue to shape us long after the world stops sending sympathy cards.

For me, that’s meant revisiting the words I wrote for her service — words I want to keep somewhere that feels like home. Artavi Studio is intended as a place where I share pieces of my journey, so it feels right to keep them here too. Not hidden away, not forgotten, but held.

My Eulogy for My Mother

Words are incredible. They allow us to share our thoughts and feelings and capture awesome detail. Communication has come so far for us as human beings, yet sometimes there aren’t any words that seem like enough. This is one of those times, but I will try to express my sentiment in a way that does my mother justice.

Good afternoon, and on behalf of my sisters, our extended family, and myself, thank you all for being here today.

We gather today to honor my mother, Carol Mary Cocchiarella — a woman whose love was steady, practical, and quietly profound.

My mother loved to care for others. For me, it was always the little things—like making sure I got some leftovers when I worked nights. Lasagna, pasta and meatballs, chocolate chip cookies… She’d often set aside a container for me first, knowing I was always awful at returning them, but making sure I was cared for. It was such a small gesture, but it carried so much intention. This was one of the things she did that always made me feel seen. I think because my sisters both have families, it was her way of wordlessly showing me a little extra love.

She was also the one who paid for dinner outings—unless someone else from her generation beat her to it—but she wouldn’t hear of one of her children paying for her. Even towards the end. Just a month ago we went through the grocery store together to get her snacks, and I grabbed a couple of things for myself. Of course, she would never allow me to pay for her things, but she wouldn’t even let me pay for my own items. She said to me, “I’m your mother. I can get you a few groceries.” It was simple, and it was absolute — her love expressed in the language she trusted most: taking care of us.

Sometimes she’d call and ask, “When you have time, can you come do some chores?” Often this would occur when I hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks. I’d chuckle, because those chores usually took five minutes—moving salt bags for the water softener, or reaching something high. I often suspected she just wanted a moment with me.

She also showed her love by worrying. And while, of my siblings, I gave her the most reasons to worry, especially in my youth, she worried just as much about my sisters. It was simply her way of loving us. Just as one example, when my sister Megan lived in the apartment above the funeral home, Mom would enter when she was away and drop off mail, clean, and even stock the fridge. Some might see that as overstepping, and there were certainly times when it could feel that way, but looking back, none of us would change a thing. Because beneath every act was the same message: “You matter to me. I’m thinking of you.”

That was Mom: love expressed in action, in care, in concern. And it was that same love that helped me through my hardest years. Those who knew me growing up know I struggled to find my place. After high school, I was lost, curious, and unsure. That curiosity led me down difficult paths, and I found myself in a hole I wasn’t sure I could climb out of. There was a time when I thought my life was ruined, that there was no coming back. But my mother’s worry, her support, and her quiet pride gave me the strength to recover and kept that pit from being bottomless. She was proud of my sisters, who are both remarkably accomplished, intelligent, and successful. And she was proud of me too—for the journey I’ve taken and the man I’ve become. Because of her, I grew into someone who teaches, creates, and leads—and who carries forward her example of kindness, integrity, and care.

Yesterday would have been her 70th birthday. She preferred celebrating her loved ones’ birthdays more than her own. She got more from giving than she ever did from receiving and she wasn’t one who coveted material possessions. As mentioned, she showed her love through actions. So to honor her, I invite you all to show your love through action in the coming days. Make a meal, bake some cookies, play some Scrabble, spend some time. Do something for someone you love in her name.

And with that, I return to words. Words have carried us through this remembrance, but for Mom, words were never her chosen language of love. She showed it in action—through food, care, worry, and presence. For her, words weren’t necessary, because we never doubted her love. Still, in her final months, we began saying them more often. And I am certain I told my mother that I loved her more in these last four months than in the first 45 years of my life. Not because it was ever in question, but because sometimes words, even if not enough, are still worth saying.

Happy birthday, Mom. We love you.

Writing those words was one of the most difficult and most meaningful things I’ve ever done. My mother loved through action — through leftovers, through worry, through five‑minute chores that were really invitations to connect. She loved everyone, gave everyone a chance, and believed in the quiet power of showing up.

That’s something I want to carry forward here.

Artavi is about community, curiosity, and the long, winding journey of becoming who we are. My mother lived that philosophy without ever naming it. She welcomed people as they were. She believed in second chances. She understood that we are creatures built to judge and interpret, but also capable of choosing compassion instead.

I’m trying to live that way too.

And in the middle of all this reflection, life keeps offering small joys. Tavi has been glued to my side — my studio supervisor, my emotional support loaf, my four‑legged reminder that presence matters. He also met Carl for the first time recently, and it went better than I could have hoped. Carl, for anyone who doesn’t know, is my mother’s namesake and her last gift — a puppy she gave to my nephews, her grandchildren, just hours before she passed. Now, whenever I come home from seeing Carl (which has been often), Tavi sniffs me with the seriousness of a detective and the devotion of someone who just wants to understand where I’ve been. It makes me laugh every time.

Grief and joy aren’t opposites. They braid together. They make room for each other.

And through it all, I keep creating. I’ve been working on new pieces that I’ll be adding to the shop this weekend as my sale wraps up. Some of them carry a little of this season’s tenderness. Some carry the cosmic wonder I always return to. All of them carry pieces of the journey — mine, and hopefully yours too.

One thing I keep returning to is how naturally my mother made space for people. She didn’t talk about inclusivity; she just lived it. She welcomed people as they were, without needing them to be anything else. I think that shaped me more than I realized.

Artavi has grown from that same instinct — a place where curiosity, creativity, and being human are all allowed to coexist. If you’re here, you’re part of the journey. That’s enough.

And since today marks the start of a new year, it feels right to acknowledge that too. New beginnings don’t erase what came before — they grow from it. I’m stepping into this next year carrying my mother’s love, my family’s strength, and the small joys that keep showing up in unexpected places. And as you begin your next orbit around the sun, I hope it brings you gentleness, connection, and moments that remind you you’re not alone on your journey.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how stars don’t disappear when we can’t see them. They’re still there — steady, burning, shaping the night in ways we don’t always notice. Grief feels a little like that. Love does too.

My mother’s light is still here. It shows up in the way I care for others, in the way I create, in the way I try to meet the world with curiosity instead of fear. It shows up in Tavi’s quiet loyalty and in Carl’s bright new beginning. It shows up in every connection this studio has made possible.

Thank you for being part of this constellation — for reading, for showing up, for letting my art and words be part of your world. And thank you, Mom, for teaching me how to love through action. I’ll keep trying to honor that, one painting, one connection, one small gesture at a time.

December Reflections: Loss, Love, and New Beginnings

This blog is a new space for me. Not a gallery of paintings, but a place for the stories behind them—the moments that shape the brushstrokes. My life, my wins and losses, my learning. Growth.

I started this website to share my art journey and teach myself how to build something from scratch. I noticed the platform had selling options, one thing led to another, and suddenly I had a business. Artavi Studio was born not from a grand plan, but from curiosity and care. I don’t expect fame or riches. I started this for me. If it inspires—or even just entertains—I’ll feel proud. If it becomes lucrative, I’ll feel accomplished. But that’s not the goal. The goal is growth and connection; a place to share my journey.

And connection, lately, has been laced with heartbreak.

My mother passed away on Friday after a brief but fierce battle with cancer. Context
It’s strange to write that sentence. Stranger still to feel how final it is. Six months ago, I could’ve woken up and called either of my parents. Now they are both gone.

Her passing was gentle and quick, just as she had hoped. She was surrounded by love—my sisters and I by her side.

Time is such a strange thing. We never have enough, yet we’re always impatient. It stretches and collapses, dilates and disappears. We can’t go back, but we carry forward—sometimes with sadness, sometimes with paint, sometimes with the smile of a memory, sometimes with a dog curled beside us.

As mentioned in the link above, losing her feels like losing that safe space you thought would always exist—the place where adulthood could loosen its grip. Home. She was “home” for many, not just her blood kin. Her colleagues, our childhood friends, neighbors, and countless others felt her warmth. But especially for my siblings, nephews, and me. She loved her sons-in-law as fiercely as her own children, and her devotion to her grandsons was radiant and unshakable.

And so, even in loss, I return to the canvas.

I have commissions in progress—gifts that will be shared once they’ve found their homes. And I’ve been working on larger canvases, stretching into new territory. Some pieces are abstract. Some are personal. All are stitched with story. These will be viewable and available in the coming days along with a sale to celebrate my mother and the season.

If you’re still here and still reading, thank you. Whether you’re grieving with me, growing with me, or simply curious—I hope this space feels like an open door. One you can walk through without knocking.

From the quiet heartbeat of Tavi beside me to the canvas before me—this is how I carry forward.

May the brushstrokes carry memory, may the stars remind us that love endures, and may we always find our way back to home.