.blue skies of January.

I came across a question this week that made me pause - what brings your unrestricted joy right now? - 

I think it's a blue sky

 

after the dark short days that feel like fleeting moments between the never ending nights

the surprise of a blue sky

the delicate yet vibrant pink/orange sunrise

the weak yet radiating sun rays enveloping me on a slow cold walk

it can feel like a deep exhale

a moment of resounding joy

the truth that impermanence is the only constant

the reminder of hope 

the hope of spring 

with all the complexities the unbearable unknowns lurking this year

maybe the greatest joy is the simplest of pleasures

maybe it can be as simple as a blue sky day

maybe it has to be, the rest is too much to hold

what brings your unrestricted joy right now? 

.2025.

May 2025 be filled with:

joy

adventures

love

presence

good food

deep conversations

travel

new landscapes

familiar places with new perspectives

ritual

peace

lightness of being

creative projects

new discoveries

feelings of being at home

tight hugs

long drives with a view

little getaways

big explorations

studio time

new friendships

deepen friendships

connected moments

vulnerability 

laughter 

fun

playfulness

excitement

desire

discipline 

belonging

feeling seen

time in the mountains

camping trips

dips in the river

overnight kayaking trips

time with the ocean

slow mornings

walks

poems

new ideas

listening to understand

lots of art

teaching

learning

flow

intentional practices

expansion

and a blessing from one of my favorites, John O'Donohue

-----------------------------------------

A blessing for presence

Awaken to the mystery of being here
and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.

Have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.

Receive encouragement when new frontiers beckon.

Respond to the call of your gift and the courage to
follow its path.

Let the flame of anger free you of all falsity.

May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame.

May anxiety never linger about you.

May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of
soul.

Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek
no attention.

Be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.

May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven
around the heart of wonder.

~ John O’Donohue ~

.open your life, open your hand.

It's August, some how. The summer seems to be evaporating faster than last. I've spent the last two days at Lake Chelan, a place I visited every summer growing up. A place of endless days of sun and swims and no schedule.

It's been a wild and full few weeks with a busy schedule, teaching a slow stitch class, work, unexpected news, slow days, fast days, river dips, community meals, evening walks, good conversations, more unexpected news, art shows, lake swims, and an expanding heart.I saw this poem a few days ago and it felt so true.
---------------------------
Let July be July
by Morgan Harper Nichols

Let July be July.
Let August be August.
And let yourself

just be
even in
the uncertainty.
You don’t have to fix
everything.
You don’t have solve
everything.
And you can still
find peace
and grow
in the wild
of changing things.
-------------------------------

but maybe the most summer of all summer poems is this one, a Mary Oliver classic.

-------------------------------
I don’t want to live a small life.
Open your eyes, open your hands.
I have just come from the berry fields, the sun

kissing me with its golden mouth all the way
(open your hands) and the wind-winged clouds
following along thinking perhaps I might

feed them, but no I carry these heart-shapes
only to you. Look how many small
but so sweet and maybe the last gift

I will bring to anyone in this
world of hope and risk, so do
Look at me. Open your life, open your hands.
-------------------------------
The fire season sunsets are electric - quick explosion in the sky before the night settles in. The days are getting shorter with full darkness by 9:30 PM. The summer is fading but it's still August. Unexpected and full and alive.

I don't want to live a small life.
Open your eyes, open your hands.

.the season of lush abundance.

 

The season of lush abundance, the tiny space right before spring wilts into summer. The days are stretching out to the furthest corners. The light enters my room some time before 4:50 AM, so early. I'm not greeting the day anymore, instead waking up to the glow. It feels so comforting to wake up to a warmed house instead of the dark starts, although I do miss watching the day slowly rise. It's this time in the year I wonder how much sleep I actually need. Can I spend every moment with the light? Maybe I should get up earlier. 

I've been outside, a lot. I want to see it all, greet all the flowers, not miss any tiny transitions. the moments, the blooms, the colors are so lush. Everything feels more beautiful in this shoulder season.

All of a sudden Memorial Day weekend came and went, summer is here. I'm in disbelief and so grateful all at once. It feels like this unknown year continues to surprise me. What a gift to be surprised and open.

I would love to live like a river flows, 
carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.

—John O’Donohue

The season of lush abundance, like that moment on a new hike with a winding path, you turn the corner and find the unexpected/the awe - a new landscape - a new connection, overwhelmed by the beauty and grateful to be so fully surprised by the magic of life. What a honor to be greeted by the unbelievable mystery. 

To be alive. 

To connect. 

To feel seen. 

To travel all these pathways and find tenderness. 

Maybe I was always on my way to this moment. I don't know what's ahead. Who would want to know - who would need to - that's where the magic lives, the unknown, the splendor, the overwhelm, the reverence. As John O'Donohue says, “when we enter into reverence, we are aware of the deep beauty of things” and “a sense of reverence opens pathways of beauty to surprise us.” Yes! I've been reading a lot of O'Donohue lately. He's someone who saw and felt the tenderness of life deeply. 

The balasmaroot season was such a creative container for me this year, working on pieces both in fiber and metal. I'm finished several projects as the season was ending, a quilt and a small series of earrings. It's feels good to finish with the moment and be open to what comes next. With the heat rising and the colors fading.What will the next season bring/reveal to me?

I went on a walk yesterday and had another moment of surprise, milkweed! Such an incredible bloom with so much purpose. The color and blooms were awe-inducing and I immediately wanted to make a quilt. I'm thinking about colors and have plans to dye fabric this weekend. 

I'm also listening/reading to a lot of Michael Singer. I really connected to something he shared on a recent podcast,

"All things are life. You have to attain a state where your state of consciousness is. The planet does not belong to me. And the people on the planet don't belong to me. I am a guest, a visitor. I'm here for a few years spinning around the sun.

I'm happy to be alive. I'm happy to have these experiences happen. I am the Self, the Atman. I sit behind. I watch the world dance. And I watch the humans react and respond. All of which is beautiful. I'm willing to learn about everything. I'm willing to experience everything, Alpha to Omega.

Light and darkness are the same to me. Beacause I am the one who sees them both. That's what it means to be transcendent."

It offered such a moment of deep clarity. Of course that's it - I'm willing to experience everything. Life is an experience. 

How can I continue to ground into myself/life experience with greater perspective that allows me to be present to and hold all these experiences and layers of life?

.dark skies at confluence gallery.

I'm so thrilled to have two pieces in the current exhibit, Dark Skies at The Confluence: Art in Twisp.

How can I hold the wonder inside of me?

This piece was inspired by late-night stargazing in the North Cascades on Hwy 20. I was struck by a moment of deep awe in the mystery of the dark sky. The illusion of layers that emerge with a softened gaze. A moment of clarity washed over - that in fact nothing really matters - all the details and expectation and conditioning - life is a magical journey of deep learning. My journey is to stay awake and present. The dark skies remind me to release the limitations and to stay in wonder. The feeling stayed with me for a few days and I as reintegrate back into the busyness the truth faded, but this piece and the dark skies keep me connected to the larger and more expansive perspectives. 

Due to the dark nature of the piece the details are not as visible photographed. The dark stitching is subtle and provides an embodying effect around the center of the circle print representing the stars. The subtle nature of the darker stitches is intentional as it requires the viewer to focus and lean in with curiosity much like the dark skies.

Material: cotton, linen and hematite stones
Measurements: 46” x 22”

Expand into the Unknown

This piece is inspired by the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. During a breath practice on the solstice last year I had a new awareness of the expansiveness of darkness. There is a need for balance and seasons. The season of darkness is an invitation to dive into ourselves to explore, to plant new ideas, to ignite wonder that will come to flourish in the season of light. I’ve been working on this piece over the past year as a contemplative practice to ask questions of the darkness, to be in practice of opening up myself, to allow myself to expand into the darkness, to listen. 

The piece is two layers of fabric densely stitched. As the stitching is dark, it is less apparent photographed. The subtle nature of the darker stitches is intentional as it requires the viewer to focus and lean in.

Material: cotton
Measurements: Measurements: 36” x 27”

You can listen about the exhibit on the Spokane Public Radio or read an article in the Wenatchee World. 

.february on the Columbia river.

I explored the Palouse to the Cascades Rail Trail near Beverly this weekend. The partly cloudy skies always make for the best reflections on the river. On my walk back, I saw two bald eagles perched on a metal trestle. I was just about 20 feet away before they took off into flight. So incredibly majestic. 

February always feels like such a breath of fresh air after the long and dark winters. The days are getting longer, the sun is more frequent, and the colors are returning. 

.2024.

a picture from my front window at 12:00AM on 1/1/24

May 2024 bring:

Devotion

Discernment

Joy

Adventure

Intentionality

Meaningful relationships 

Community 

Space to create

New perspectives 

Groundedness

Clarity

Nature

Vast spaces 

Newness 

Familiarity 

Nourishing conversations 

Written letters

New recipes

Shared meals

Rituals

Seasonal attunement

Good books

Learning 

Peace

Serendipitous moments

Belonging

Laughter 

Playfulness 

Dips in the ocean 

Kayaking 

Sunbathing 

Hikes 

Camping 

Coffee outside

Explorations 

Courage 

Gratitude

Love

Hugs

Kisses

Late nights 

Early morning adventures 

Joy - resounding joy

Rest without need for validation 

Soft days

Deep breaths 

some pictures from the almost annual Ancient Lakes hikes....oh the beauty!

.the soft in-between.

Friday was the last working day of the year. I left work early, four instead of 5:30. It's been sometime since I've left work in the light of day, so when I walked out to the overcast but light sky I was thrilled. The day seemed to have a surprise extension. When it was time to turn off onto my street, I just kept driving to a nearby trailhead. I haven't hike after work since probably October. With just enough light for a quick hike, I set out on the soft trail. 

It feels strange to be here, at the end of the year. January and February feel like forever ago but it also feels like it was just June. As with all across the world, the weather isn't aligning with traditional timekeeping. We've only had maybe two snows this winter with one sticking around for a day or so. The foothills barely have a dusting on them. The earth smelt musty and fresh like spring. The pungent burn of sage rising up to my nose. It felt strange to be on the edge of the new year and hiking in the surrounding of a false spring, a different moment of transition. These illusive boundaries of here and there, now and then. The lines seems to continue to blur as time goes on. It made me think about these moment of the soft in-between, the waiting, the pause.

 

I was listening to Tara Brach's podcast episode about the sacred pause and one part I loved was: 

"Pausing is really a way of reconnecting with what I sometimes call Being-states — the very essence-states that express who we are. At one point, the well-known pianist, Arthur Rubenstein, was asked: “How do you handle the notes as well as you do?” And I loved his response. It was really immediate and passionate. He said, “I handle the notes no better than many others. But the pauses, ahh, that’s where the art resides.”

 I wonder how I can be more present + attuned to the sacred pauses.

.a sliver of light.

 With the short days of fall - almost winter, my hikes are limited to the weekends during the shrinking afternoon window of not early morning freezing temps but before the 4 pm darkness. The darkness always feels shocking every year. The limited light put a sense of urgency into the day. I think maybe others slow down, but I'm so hungry to get out and walk the land. I went for a quick hike near my house this weekend. I was working on a project and then realized it was 2:30PM, so I dropped what I was doing knowing that I would have only a hour or so of light left for a walk. The path is on the north side of the hillside so it was already out of the path of the sun, but I began to notice the tiny sliver of light that draped on the surrounding hillsides. Just a peek of light. 

Winter is not my favorite season or even a season I enjoy most of the time, but I'm always in awe to experience the transition of place in a season. The impermanent art of nature.

.rabbitbrush dye.

 I've wanted to make a natural dye with rabbitbrush for the past few years. I took an online course from Aaron Sanders Head last summer and learned a lot about the natural dye process, but I hadn't explored beyond indigo and turmeric. I went kayaking in Grant County and noticed a ton of rabbitbrush, so collected blooms and knew it was the time to finally try it! I can't believe the results! 

Rubber Rabbitbrush is a native plant in the Shrub-Steppe that blooms in the early fall. I love it for its vibrant yellow blooms. You can tell time by the plants of the Shrub-Steppe. I know fall is here when the yellow blooms of rabbitbrush appear. I had heard they produce a natural dye, but there wasn't much information online. I found a digital pdf that mentioned it was a common plant to use for dye with indigenous groups living in shrub-steppe landscapes. I found one post about rabbitbrush dyeing, but it didn't have much information. The sparse information gave me enough curiosity to try it. 

I used two yards of cotton fabric. I didn't have soda ash, so I opted for a hot second wash in the washer. All sources highly recommended scouring the fabric. I then used aluminum acetate to mordant. I finished the process with a chalk bath. While the fabric was soaking, I started to simmer the rabbitbrush blooms in another pot. Most sources recommend boiling for an hour. I think I was a little over an hour. Then I introduced the mordant fabric and left it in the hot water. I immediately saw the color. After an hour, it was already a decent shade of yellow, but knowing it would fade, I left it overnight and am so happy with the final color. 

The first picture is the dye after an hour. The second, after an overnight soak. With the final color below! I was honestly shocked to see such vibrant color come from the blooms. Plants are amazing! 

.holding on until it fades.

    It might feel like I keep posting the same pictures, but this spring I can't seems to shake the awe and wonder of walking the vibrant foothills. I know this season is short. The heat was late to arrive this year, but it's here and increasing by the day, which means the vibrant yellows and purples will soon disappear until next spring. There are more blooms to come in the shrub-steppe, the bitterbrush is emerging and the buckwheat and rabbitbrush are still to come, but it's the balsamroot and lupine that kickoff the season. They're still here. I find myself walking the same path a few times a week, attentively observing the rhythm of blooms. Last night I could tell the blooms were fading away. There are still brilliant arrangements in small pockets, so I'm holding on while it's here. I've been thinking a lot about the beauty/vibrancy of the native plants. I wonder if the beauty is magnified by the limitations. The fragility of this moment. The miracle that all the elements come together to allow this tiny season to exist. The contrast of muted arid lands that make these bloom feel so shockingly joyful. I think it is the tenderness, the softness of these weeks. So often it's the time that gives the highest value but there's so much to learn from the seasons of nature. To appreciate and be fully present to this moment. How can I bring this understanding to my day to day life? How can I practice deeper presence and release the need to attach value and time? I'm working on jewelry regularly again. It feels good to have constant studio time. My jewelry practice is a reflection/expression/journal of where the inner and outer world intersect/combine, so it makes sense that my current pieces are influenced by the shapes and teachings of the spring, the vibrancy of tenderness.