Your hand around mine

First night of insomnia in Months.

Seriously, since getting pregnant, my body is disinterested in my restless brain's occasional desire and decision to not sleep.  It knocks me out every dang night.

I fell asleep quickly but at last, the roller coaster that is my life the last twelve months, greeted me at 12:32am.

I tried not to move.  Maybe if I pretended not to be awake, maybe my brain would forget, maybe -

Luna's cold nose softly poked my arm.  I opened my eyes to see this gentle friend watching me. She knows, my breathing gave me away.

We got up and went down stairs and she went out to go potty and I did too. When she came back in, she tried to herd me to bed but I went to the second bedroom.

Usually this room helps.  The warm adobe walls embrace me. This time it doesn't.   I think about this being her room.

I listen to the vibrations of her hiccups - whenever I move in the middle of the night, it gives her the hiccups. Her little feet start paddling gently against my lower rib cage.

I think about what this means; first time parenthood is daunting and thrilling and odd.  I feel so young these days.  I see that my thirty years something equals infant something maturity.  My grasp of life and my place in it is so small.  Infinitesimally unbelievably small.

Despite this fact, my life is overwhelmed in gifts of great grace, with astonishing beauty.  I am privileged beyond believable explanation with my relationship to the most remarkable human ever made.  Our rare, gorgeous, messy relationship will be a shadow on the wind forever.

I marinate in this until 2:30am.

Then I get up and go downstairs.  Char greets me and we hang out for a bit.

There was this moment in Yellowstone....

I was drunk with joy.

Blinding sunlight reflected off the dark blue green water below, a breezy cool wind raises goosebumps on my wet skin...  

I smiled up at him, into his silver blue eyes,  My long tangled hair lies in wet ropes on my sun burnt shoulders, my exposed white belly blazes in the blue afternoon and the little life inside me curls up tightly.

I do not fear the water as I usually would, I do not question my semi-uncoordinated feet, I am holding the hand of the one I value most and the world is ours.

His hand, warm and strong around mine, gives me confidence to jump into the deep -For the fifth time.

He counts down from three and together we jump, never letting the other go.

All the ups and disorienting downs of the last several weeks comes back to this moment.  All of the disjointed happenings in the last 365 days are summed up in that moment.

Yes life is strange and people sometimes as awful as they are amazing... Yes the unpredictable is scary and terrifying but no matter what - there we are.

As long as we jump together, as long as our fingers are interlocked as we plunge in, as long as we surface linked; no unrelenting current will pull us apart.  We will laugh, reflecting back to each other all that over flows and builds in one to the other; victorious in this story that is of you and I.

Snow kite: 1. Me: 0

Doesn't this look nice?

Day one Mr. Husband is in lessons. I was careful to listen and watch all instruction should I have a go at it some point.  The winds were light throughout the day and Snow kiting looked like a good kick in the butt.   I skied and trudged through heavy deep snow to hike out to help a few times.  He was one exhausted human being at the end of the day.  

In between rescue retrievals and re-hydration missions, I was content to wander, take pictures, freak out when Luna was too close to the ONE road in the middle of no where.... 

And happily take up a snowmobile rider's offer for a few rides to the top of the hill so I can ski back down

The day was a good day. An awesome, sun burnt, mega-watt grinning kind of day.  

Day Two... maybe I would get to try it out.  My inner dialogue is something like this on a repeatable loop; "I may lack a little dexterity and of course I will struggle just like Mr. Husband did, but there is clearly more wind today and I Can figure this out -This Will be Fun."  

Yeahhhhhhh... about that... besides my lacking of a prickly talent, (I have a serious eye/hand coordination shortage), the baby beginner snow kite I was attempting to man handle, was freaking powerful.  

I never did get to get my skies on.  I stumbled in my ski boots over and over again as the Thing yanked me forward and down a few times. It's not hard to launch, very similar to a paraglider, but steering seemed to be opposite.  Fortunately I land on my face regularly and I have developed a knack for ignoring having the air knocked out of me.  Although the force of my impacts tend to startle bystanders... but it really doesn't hurt... well it doesn't hurt that much anyway...

Ugh... anyway, summary, Snow kite: 1.  Me: 0  

Lady in the Wind (Original Art)

I drew out a couple of sketches at 3 am to capture the mood and the next day laid out an outline on an 16" X 20" X 1.5" canvas.

The completed piece is heavily layered and textured using acrylic paint.  Para-gliders soar, cumulonimbus clouds build, far off rain falls and wild ocean waves spray a rocking sailboat; All held by the mood of the Lady in the Wind.

 

'Lady in the Wind'

16" X 20" X 1.5"

Acrylic - Stretched canvas

Etsy Shop listings

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Skagway, Alaska

Skagway, Alaska
12" X 36" X 1.5"
Acrylic

(this work is unavailable) 

Free Flight: Paragliding and Hanggliding

Please Watch and Share: Gliders vs. Miners

The mining company purchased the property behind the houses in the 1990's when there were already houses.  This mining company will devastate the neighborhood and quality of life if they are allowed to mine "Phase 2".

I find it interesting that one neighbor cannot change his adjoining property (house and land) in a manner that negatively impacts mine without at least a massive effort to prove the need and to then hear opposing views. How can a different neighbor be completely exempted when their intended use of the property includes the words "total disturbance"?

Please sign the petition https://www.change.org/p/salt-lake-county-government-save-steep-mountain

A Taste

I am eager for a taste of this tricky evening.  I watch the wings that sink out. I watch the wings that hold on. I watch the C wings take the last bench.  I see that flat, yet tight turns, determine the fate of those that hang on.  Tips that wobble, from brakes pulled too much or too little, will miss the narrow thermals and rocky rolling lift line.  I watch and watch, learning, absorbing yet hesitating. 

This is some of my favorite air.  It may look crowded for a few minutes but I know I will have most of the ridge to myself if I hold out because most will sink or land out.

I am eager for a taste but I pause as I watch launch.  Many of the pilots, including those who possess kiting skills that far exceed my own, are struggling.  Light easterly cross wind mixes with strong tapered thermals in densely cool air causing wings to rapidly switch from surging forward to buckling in; all while trying to also to rock them into the gullies. 

Once I am past launch, the air will engulf me in the moment.  I know I will be present, 100% present in each instant.  It is a drug for me.  I don’t care about the last course; I don’t care about the bench.  I want the thrill of listening to my wing, of staring fiercely at the stiff sage for flickering foliage, of guessing which ridge will have the tiniest bit more movement as I try to correctly time each sink and lift cycle.

Oh I am eager for a taste!   Again, I pull my wing up but just as quickly I set it back down.  Again the light sharp feather of memory teases my neck.  I have been ‘gullied’.  The result was only a few nasty scratches and a twisted ankle but I have not forgotten it could have been more. I turn around to watch another pilot get picked up, sat down and snarled into a knot.

I look around for an instructor who has before helped me this year on a similar evening but they aren't here. Drat.  I turn back and as I watch I can see the gusts are abating.  It is going to continue to be cross and uneven but it is smoother.  I roll my shoulders, take a deep breath, decide and ask someone else to assist me; to ask them help me be safe and coach my launch.

And they do, while telling me I should take a pass on this tricky air…. J  With their much appreciated verbal only guidance, I have a safe launch and I have my taste.

Oh such wonderful air; the best kind, the teaching kind, the kind that keeps me hyper alert.  I grinned as I missed the minuscule thermal at the gazebo and I carefully tapped my brakes into a flat turn to catch it again, relying on weight shift.  I laughed as I climbed back up to ridge level; I dropped my inside hip, just touching my outside brake to level out my wing’s porpoise effect caused by flying close to the gullies and ridges.  I repeat this movement, searching the ridge for all of the steps.

A strong thermal lifts me up quickly and I turn into it, ‘parked’ for a moment until I feel it roll over and past and down I sink again.  The rowdiest air on an easterly evening seems to always towards the end so I use the lower landing zone to as a visual marker to not go past.

I dance in this silly, laughing turbulent air delivered by a wind that challenges me to be present, to be in every instant, to never let my attention stray and to never give up.  For thirty four minutes I sink, I soar; I live in each heart beat until I hear her sigh that she is done with our play.   I turn in my last chance to be on top, land on the grass and laugh at myself. 

Our Muse

I am twisted slightly to look over my shoulder, eyes glued to the sluggishly waving wind sock behind me.  Every exhale of moving air against my neck is mentally measured. My peripheral vision watches the cells of my paraglider breathing in the north wind's presently insignificant gasps.

A tiny bead of sweat cools the side of my temple.  The rest is caught inside the mesh of my snug full face helmet. My fingers slide softly against my lines...

The north wind is coming.  I know it.  My imagination pictures my Wind Woman tumbling, laughing, teasing around far off flags and trees.  Although she is carelessly delayed by distractions from the eastern mountains and then tardier still as she momentarily pauses to smile at leaves... she is coming and I am patient and impatient as the late summer sun roasts my shoulders through my long sleeved shirt.

All around me stand 30 or more others; gear on, harnesses clipped, their heads also steam cooking in colanders called helmets.

We wait in near silence.

Then... the hang glider waiting on the edge of launch, having leaned forward on his wires for minutes the length of hours, suddenly straightens and takes the base tubes (the frame) of his wing in his hands; he has seen the flag down the valley snap up and strong.  He launches. The nose dips down and then curves up.

She is here.

There is a unvoiced cheer of unified relief as we pull up our wings, each of us now competing for our spot to take off.  We stagger forward like zombies, chests to the ground, toes scrambling; we are laughing with our belated muse as she catches us off the earth's edge to toss us up and up.

'The Bug', Ego and a Vaccine

Our perception of self worth and value tends to be deeply aligned with our pesky testy fragile ego and as such it is an incredibly powerful aspect of the human condition, ego can be a serious force to reckon with.

I have my own ego issues, of course, but they are not usually sports related. God and fate did not see fit to give me a reasonable sense of spacial awareness or much by the way of eye hand coordination.  I respect the high possibility I may die carrying the laundry down the stairs some day. So when it comes to sports, of any kind, I hold myself back, take extra care and never compare my progress to others.

And this detached approach works well for me.... Until I catch 'The Bug'.

'The Bug' happens when I get really interested, invested and begin to see 'Dramatic Improvement'. Symptoms include an awakened fiercely competitive six year old self, hair brained determination and a complete lack of concern for possible bodily harm. Having the 'The Bug' means that I will now measure my progress with a ruthless and unforgiving memory.

Skiing is a great example.

I started skiing on gentle runs in the rolling sprawling hills of Harrisburg. I loved it; each time was chaotic movements in a splendor of heavy snow and coupled with fantastic car wheels.

Then I moved to Utah and had a couple of days on snow accompanied with the skilled aid of my dearest. Having grown up skiing on a racing team in Utah, he is more than proficient, ridiculously fast and a persistent instructor. Under his tutelage I went from sort of up right and mildly paying attention to showing some assemblage of 'Dramatic Improvement'.

I remember my first run taken with 'The Bug' and an inkling of confidence... As of that run, I have clobbered my face, free fallen, lost skies, blacked out and seen the inside of the First Aid office at Snowbird and Alta. In the name of 'The Bug' and my burning desire to be awesome; I have become a fanatical devotee to my crusade -despite my natural state of klutz.

Getting 'The Bug' is not a given occurrence though.  Scuba diving, for example; My darling introduced me to the world of diving years ago but the whole thing only enhanced an already acute awareness of my squish-able self. Diving is cool, awe inspiring and down right scary. Scuba diving remains in the category of 'Improve and Proceed with Extreme Caution'

Flying has been in this category up until last October.  I treated the whole thing with watchful meticulous routine and warily eyed interest. Then last year, after a summer of monsoons, cross winds and blown out days, there came a mystical week in October. For six days, in a row, there arrived warm/ cool autumn air, bringing straight and even winds with golden sunsets.

It's incredible what consistency will do. Launching, flying and landing six days in a row, of course, improved my confidence and skills. It also included my personal hook: 'Dramatic improvement'.

Perhaps 'The Bug' is intermediate syndrome, I have read a bit about it. Intermediate syndrome describes making 'choices not in line with one's actual level of experience, skills' and general know how. Regardless of what it is called, I have it, a burning, driving need to understand and accomplish, on my own, continuous improvement.  Along with 'The Bug', my ego now includes the unhappy trait of sensitivity when my choices are second guessed.

Then.... something did not happen to me, it happened to the one who matters most. I listened to the one with a prouder and stronger character than anyone in this world; swallow the first and exemplify the second, and ask for help, feedback and advice.

I think might have found a vaccine for 'The Bug'.

It's called 'Be Quiet and Listen.'

Inspiration Point (Original Art)

'Inspiration Point' 

10.75" X 13.75" 

Heavy Weight Mixed Media Paper

Permanent markers; Oil Pastels; Acrylic

'Wind Woman Sing me a Song' (Original Art)

'Wind Woman Sing me a Song'

11" X 14" 

Heavy Weight Drawing Paper

Permanent markers & Oil Pastels

https://www.etsy.com/listing/190727332/wind-woman-sing-me-a-song-original-fine?ref=shop_home_active_2

**Sold**

Moab (2009)

I meant to touch on the camping trip and realized, a month later… that I didn’t.

Moab is…. How to draw Moab?

We arrived in the evening and we started our visit then and there by scrambling around the top of Dead Horse Point. My best sweetheart told me the story of how the place acquired its name and it left me with a tightened throat. Sunset fell completely and the night wind swept up the sheer cliffs, blowing my clothes against me and my hair into snarls. My hands hurt which was interesting. My hands always ache when I am high up. Heights do something to my heart rate too. So although I couldn’t see perfectly, my body knew where I was.

For a woman raised on the east coast for most of her formative years…. Beauty, to me, is the wet grass, the fireflies, the smell of the sea, rain in the afternoon, green everywhere. This was a different world completely.

Moab is a swirling dance of red, orange, and dusty purple during the day. It is fire and brilliant shards of light at dusk. It is a calm grey blue at night.

Silence beats against your ears. Regardless of whether is it a trail with very few companion hikers or if it is where tourism and crowds abound, the silence streams around the shrill echoes of laughter and brushes against your legs, eyes and heart. Silence is alive there.

Towering rocks are temples, they are forbidding and watchful as you pass under them. The ground exhales under your feet and for all the stones, dust, and solid ancient landscape, somehow Moab is vibrantly Alive and Self-Aware. It is an Eerie, and almost Holy place.

There the wind woman is even more wild and dangerous and beautiful. Although I have always loved and distrusted her, I have never felt fear. There, I was so sensitive to my fragile body and her fierce freedom that I was actually afraid.

It was exhilarating.

(2009 07)

'Remember the Light after the Storm' (Original Fine Art)

Sunday evening I landed, I packed and then I stepped away to close my eyes and breathe deeply.  I took a long sip of air slightly chilled with a cold front passing, warmed with early summer rays and sharp with a taste of cut grass and dust.  I have the perfect amount of quiet gratitude in my glass of joy.  

I am lost in time again; looking around at a little eclectic community framed by wild clouds and golden sunset.

And I remember… I am twenty again, twenty and cold.  I hadn't anywhere to go that night and I was afraid to be found by the one person looking.  There was no one to call and no way to call anyway.  I had snow soaked tennis shoes on, a small stash of squirreled away cash in my pockets and the sudden inexplicable belief that I would 'will' myself out of the corner I'd painted myself into.  

I remember this night like it is now; I cup my soul’s hands gently, carefully, around that night with palms full of humble recognition.  That beautiful night I huddled, shaking and shivering, in the shelter of a covered door entry at a closed grocery store. I remember a fire born in darkness and determination.  The heat of it burned my heart, my ribs - the inner flames torched my icy fingers -I would get out of this mess.

I closed my eyes at that moment on that night and I pictured what this would mean, how it would taste, what I would be able to do.  I pictured the road trip Dee and I promised each other, I pictured my identity,  I took my fears of water, of heights, of friendship, of roots and I held them to this fire and watched them burn.  For hours, alone and un-found, until early dawn, I concentrated on this vision.  

I had realized one of my truths, (I have a few now), and this one is a big one.  Maybe an obvious one but that’s the thing about being young- we all start out not knowing anything. 

Truth#4:  We forget that both happiness and storms will come and go and pass.  Again and again. Happiness is such a fleeting, painfully fragile, delicate and wondrous thing. And we forget, as we bask in it's luminous glow, our arms stretched out and up to the welcoming sky, that it will come and go and pass.

Storms, so wild, wicked and dark, as our ship is sinking, ropes lashing in the wind and unsecured sails perilously unfolding; we despair and forget. We forget it will pass. That the heavy suffocating rain will lessen, the clouds will break and the moon will return with stars to guide the way.  

Here is the point; Storms will come all on their own.  Sometimes we may mistakenly steer ourselves into them, sometimes we choose a course that lengthens the duration we ride through them -but storms will come. 

Happiness, while it may seem to 'just happen', happiness is always a choice.  Happiness is in our heads.  Sometimes it is a hard choice, one reached for with grasping hands blinded by pain, loss, or most terribly of all, with regret. 

Happiness was the moment I believed, that night and the nights after, with all I wanted to be; I believed I could and I would figure out how to get out of that situation. And every happiness since then leaves my mortal beating heart shaking with thankfulness to the person inside me trying her best, the man standing beside me and all the people around me reaching out with giving hands.

Remember the light after the storm Reader.  Even if that is all you can do as you hang on to the wheel of your ship, nose into the wind, the world black and your horizon tumbling, remember the light outside of the storm.

'Remember the Light after the Storm'

16" X 20 X .75"

Original Art - Oil Pastels/ Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)

Wings in the Air (Original Art)

'Wings in the Air'

24" X 30" X .75" 
Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)

Headed Home

Lately, the Wind Woman had been something of a pill, delivering only turbulent rain or half-hearted little breaths of a breeze.  Just in the prior week, on THREE evenings, I stood clipped into my gear, sweating in my full face helmet, fingers fiddling with my lines, staring over my shoulder at the flag on the end of launch.... and no wind....

Additionally I was immersed in family chaos composed of college graduation, dinners, military commissioning, an impromptu bridal shower -All of which a happy series of events, of course, but also loaded with family politics and emotions.  

Naturally, it was fantastic flying conditions the two nights booked with family gatherings....

And then it was Sunday and although the weather was not predicted to be flyable, it was still Sunday, the most lovely day of the week.  I am very fortunate to have a deeply religious family and usually I am left Sunday as my day -no interruptions, no events. Ah Sunday, how I eye this day with excited scheming and anticipation.  

Sunday morning we pulled weeds, hauled branches and after four hours of yardwork, the rental property was a little more presentable.  That afternoon, we hurried to Alta to celebrate closing day by slugging through heavy slushy spring snow and admiring the array of inappropriate costumes and outfits (or lack of ).  

As we returned to the car, my darling man checked the winds on his phone and announced... "Hey! It's flyable!".

Skies and boots were never so quickly shed.  Tearing down the mountain, falling out of the car to swap our ski gear for paragliders, we dashed to the flight park.  

And it was flyable;  we stepped out of the car, into harnesses and off of launch into bouncy and perfectly ahhhhhmazing wind. 

We flew and flew, for around an hour until it was time to head home.

"Headed Home"

"11" X "14" X ".75"
Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)


***I have decided this piece needs a lovely vibrant background... ;)

(Twitter)

Bike Ride (Original Fine Art)

'Bike Ride'

"20" X "24" X "1.5"
Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)

A Pilot's Point of View (Original Fine Art)

"A Pilot's Point of View (Lone Peak)"

16" X 20" X 1.5"

Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/ UV)

Like this style?  Email me to request a personalized version.  This is a painting of a hang glider pilot, using a photo they provided.  This is an original piece and one created for you would also be an original.  

"A Pilot's Point of View (Timpanogos)"

9" X 12" X 1.5" (Complete 3D Piece)

Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/ UV)

Like this style?  Email me to request a personalized version.  This is a painting of a hang glider pilot, using a photo they provided.  This is an original piece and one created for you would also be an original.  

This piece is comprised of one 8" X 10" X 3/4" canvas mounted to one 9" X 12" X 3/4" canvas, bringing the completed work to 9” X 12" X 1.5”.  

Follow the Moon (Original Fine Art)

"Follow the Moon"

30" X 15" X 1.5"

Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV) 

Click here for Artwork only

Turning point

Something strange has happened.

I noticed it when we went skiing in January.  Something had switched in my focus, something was different in my decisions; I have a feeling of intention.  I skied thinking about the snow, about the day, about the line.  I did not thinking about how steep was the run, how many were the trees and how thick was the falling snow… not one of my usual inner questions awoke to look for and find flickering familiar fault.   I just skied. 

At the end of the day, when my hero wanted to show me a view that required a hike, I didn't mention my trembling legs and exhausted hands.  I followed.  When he turned and saw my slower steps, when he pulled my skies off my shoulder and carried both, I just said thank you. As he turned away, I swallowed back my salty girly reaction to the beauty of our friendship and his seeing heart and hurried up.

I just had my first 'real' flight this month.  Even though it had been months, I didn't find my usual nauseating swirl of nerves and self doubt as I pulled out my wing. I ran my fingers through my lines, clipped into my harness, completed my pre-flight check, kited for a couple of minutes and launched.

I actually felt lonely without my shadowy quivering fears. I am the queen of self doubt, the champion of personal mistrust.  All alone with the wind on my face, I just flew. I flew for thirty three minutes until I decided to land and warm up. There I found the glow of sunlight, a calm sunset and familiar friends.  I looked around as I packed my wing, wearing my usual dorky 'just flew' grin plastered on my face and I wallowed in awesomeness that is this time in my life.

While I would love to attribute my new found confidence to myself; it is because I am watching someone else's audacious bravery that I have this unfamiliar poise.

Someone important to me, someone I have long respected, admired; someone I 'knew' would always alienate me because I'd chosen a path he could not understand, relate to - much less praise –This person has decided to chose an uncharted and unknown path, one that is the complete opposite of the one he has long followed. 

I am amazed, I am enlightened because his new direction was discovered only because of his staggering possession of courage and his driving need for truth.  But that isn't what astounds me, it is that He Intends to Take the Journey.

Ohhhhhh I flinched and glowed when I heard his intentions.  I took this journey.  I remember my horror when I realized my prior belief system was built on terrible deceit. It seems that all religions maybe presently followed with good intentions but the original story was certainly not. 

Individuals I respected and loved looked at me as the betrayer for questioning their strongly revered and complicated superstitions.  When a person declares they are leaving - leaving means you are a cancer and you may infect the rest and so you must be cut out or held at careful bio-hazard clothed arm's length.

For YEARS I had stood bewildered by my loss of culture, acceptance and identity.  And here's the thing Reader -I got out early, I took the chicken route, I moved away and I never approached the topic directly.  Snide comments were swallowed and judgmental verdicts accepted.

He, on the other hand, has invested years, oodles of  tithing money, scarified friendships - Every personal and professional decision ruled by  rationale decreed from inside religious parameters..... And he didn't just have the spine to research questions, earnestly and honestly.  He actually accepted the answers he found deploying sound logic and He Intends to Take the Journey. 

– By this, I am set free. 

http://mormonexpression.com/2012/12/19/episode-219-ex-mormonism-as-a-heros-journey/

Me and the Wild thing

Usually it’s a statement, “You should sell your art!”

Sometimes it is a question, “Why don’t you sell your art?”

Questions of this nature bemuse and flatter.  I am puzzled because I know I am not particularly good.  I am charmed because perhaps they feel what I felt while painting.

I married the most intelligent, brilliant and handsome man.  We live a life of adventure, friendship and beauty.  Life, work, pets, dinner, dishes –most of these daily tasks bring me happiness and satisfaction.

Despite this incredible life... there is something restless inside me.  And I feel I understand people who fight to live happily while sharing space with something inside them.  When ‘this’ rises up inside, I must rise to greet it.  If I do not, if I decide to ignore or fight it, 'it' and it's rip tide of need will shred my sanity.  You see, inside of me, there is a wild thing. 

The last few weeks were on fast forward and I haven’t painted At All in over three weeks.  Not one sketch or doodle.  My hands began to hurt first; I started to clench and flex them in my sleep.  Next my eyes start to look hungry in the mirror.  Now I am half listening to people around me, half of me checked out in distraction. This growing, hyperventilating need to pull into myself; to sit alone in a grove of trees found only in my head -it is about to consume me.  This starved feeling had begun to torch all other feelings into ash –my nightly dreams become a frantic race to my imagined trees and as I nearly reach  them - the morning alarm again goes off.

Early this morning, still short on time, thinking about a lunch I haven’t packed, a phone call from a recruiter, my boss’s email, a class I need to take a look at, laundry in the dryer –Instead, for a moment, I went outside to watch Lone Peak disappear in the oncoming storm.  I watched the cloud cover expand, thick and wet, as it draped across the mountain and I listened to the softest smallest wind breathe….please…

Two hours later I took twenty minutes to lay a base of blues, purple, grey and greens on a stark white naked canvas.  I cannot tell you how it feels, I can try:  It is oxygen flooding into my hands, a feeling of water and wind in my lungs and my terrible torturing tension eases. 

You see, I am not a religious person and I am not fond of the idea there could be a guy in a beard hanging out in clouds, delivering bizarre rules.  However I do believe in the Wind Woman. I believe in the prophetic powers of sunflowers, dreams and instincts.  

Here is the complication about selling my art:  Each painting is a spell I cast using paint to reflect the light breaking in my soul; I cast out an imagined silver and gold net to draw in emotion, the moment, the point of view I am seeing. 

I have always hung them where I live so every time I walk in, I rest when I see them.  The wild thing relaxes.  Safety, beauty; the intangible threads of my life woven into these small bright windows.  It doesn’t matter to me if they are good or correctly scaled or controversial and strange.   They are me.  I painted them for the purpose of existing.  I painted them because it made me smile.  If they make someone else smile that is exciting!  Because they felt what I felt and I have successfully expressed my truth; We are all connected, no one is as alone as they think, wish or fear. 

How do I sell that?  What is the right price tag?