Auburn and warm with tea, she sits very still inside her tiny, nested world. Silently, she speaks with the maple tree, all about love. As the afternoon sun stretches to the nearby mountains to the west, the River beckons on the other side of the pasture. A black and white horse stands like a lonely prince, forgotten. He has come to recently remember his worth, with the frequent gifts of friendship shared as carrots from her hand and the young girl, with titanium strength, who frequently walks by her side. Today, this woman sits in the company of neighboring sheep, horses, lamas. And so many more. Fox, owl, black bear, coyote. Deer, heron, eagle, osprey. All of these creatures live in quiet days with wild grasses on this land she calls home for now. Books of poems fill her life, Whitman, Rilke, Rumi, Oliver, her own writing too. Each word is food for this time, this new life rising slowly into view.
As she sings from inside the open window, the barn owl arrives to sing along from the neck of a cottonwood, just outside her window. Sunlight streams in from the west and flashes of her life rush by in layers of songs and faded colors...
New York City, over a decade ago. All the muses that flew fearlessly from the sounds she shared with so many kindred folk. Free improvisations, classical contemporary explorations, jazz like wild animals, minimalistic sound catharsis, duo music of intimate creations and classical work too. Steam from her present cup of tea weaves in and out of past concerts in cathedrals, small clubs and creaky seated theaters. It was a time of heavy growth, the kind that comes from finding what you don't want, then what you do.
Next, Portland, Oregon floods her sleepy mind with slow songs and a mulberry tree. Duo work of intimate elegance, in parallel unity of sound and heart. It was a time of heightened lessons in music, life and love. Again, finding what you don't want, then what you do, this time with more courage and healing to tend.
A hungry horse calls from the southern field. She snaps back to the dog on her lap and the poem half written on the table. This cabin is just right. She breathes slow and wide, stretching freckled arms towards the great Big Sky.
Over the course of these few years, the magnetic field in the core of this planet has pierced the bottom of her feet, up through each cell to transform her limbs with a new life of colossal proportions. It is from this continental shift that she can now sit and watch this familial maple tree from the perspective of the mountains that surround her - not at all from eyes of a woman with tea in a mug she made of clay. Assuredly, the peaks of ancient mountains shine through her now, the shrinking masses of earth and rock that hold her in a consistent blanket of romantic power.
Her formative years were filled with coyotes of the Rattlesnake Gulch. Echoes of this wild girl and howling creatures weave through seasons and new stories. All the while, words unfold through pen to paper. To write: life as it is. This is one of her greatest joys, with a candle well lit in a small mason jar. The flame, a reminder that all she offers is nourishment to the unseen. As her mythic longing surges through untamed eyes.
When able, she loves to quietly return to the wheel, molding clay into original form to be brought to colored life. All in a wood fired kiln up a dirt road, up a green mountain called Blue. The photographs click when the old camera’s in hand and her singing is usually accompanied by an image of a love. Horses, dogs and happy birds are her main musical audience with occasional humans. While she adores water, and the steady movement through it, she is a child of dark soil. This land has given remembrance back to her skin and in the glacial lake valley, she sends thanks to the real, the raw and the true - and to that one brave man, living the world as he is, who rests in the center circle of those three clear pillars.
In the most meaningful of mornings, she rises to greet the first child in her life, who grows with monumental resilience and urges her to do the same. Praise fills this woman’s breath, quiet settles in the belly. The Milky Way opens doors in the almost pure blackness and the melodious rivers flow pure and cold. Almost every night, she folds into faith carried on owl wings. The dreams that follow are often songs on repeat, with frequent scenes of a story coming true - then not - but held up to the sky, given to the stars again.
