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Water Colored Wishes

I felt my eyes involuntarily widen as I realized how I'd forgotten how satisfied I get with dipping a brush and smearing the pigment onto 140 lb. cold pressed paper. The cool, open air all around yet the cozy feeling of support warming me from within. Once I returned home, I casually sifted through the photos I snapped during class. You can feel the mellow vibes even through the black and whites. Look at us...the dreamers with watery colors dripping down into the grooves with each move, and the creator teaching the creatives; passing along the sacred skills built within and ready to surface. I studied the instructor. I'm glad it was this particular instructor, although, I can't tell you exactly why at the moment. I just know I left feeling as light as a feather with mended feathered wings, carrying a heavy dose of creativity. Just what the Great Physician ordered. Build your foundation on the primary, absorb the splatter and let your heart be the backlight, projecting through, until the mess becomes a masterpiece. 

Imagery of Heaven

I grew up listening to sermons and reading on the perfectness of Heaven. The streets of gold, the walls of jasper, the gates of pearl, the symmetry...a city of gold, garnished in precious stones.  Okay, but hear me out...

A Heaven for me would be my bare feet pressed against a cool, clay ground

A trickling echo with crystal waters from snowcapped mountains, flowing down

 With shades of blues, greens, grays and browns

And vivid pops of flowers scattered all around

The sound of soft, rhythmic beats and melodic harmonies

Sung by the familiar voices of our Most Cherished, and the Painted Buntings in the serene oak trees

At night, stars would lower, as though they're on a clear string

Not as in diamonds, the same brilliance a diamond, nor any other jewel, could not bring

(Afterall, the luster of such wore off to me a long time ago

After being lusted and fought over, just for a percentage to show off their extra glow)

A vision to see microscopic views as big as the skies

And to see lightyears away, knowing the answers to your whys

Still remembering the past and all that I've overcome

How perfect would this place seem if I didn't remember where I came from

A natural place, no artificially intelligent part

No questioning; the paper mâché  walls of poetry are written by the human heart

A slight breeze, preferably a temp in the 70s

I'll follow the grassy-walled path that leads to the seas

I'll sleep on the silky sand, to the lull of whispering waves

Until the sun wakes me and wraps me in the golden warmth my skin craves

It may appall some and others might see

But this is my Heaven in my Imagery

The holiday season does well with putting things into perspective. Even without being a very festive person, the magnification and significance of traditions has a way of causing me to turn inward and examine my role in the crowd I'm standing in. To gaze through the tangled strands of lights and connect with the strongest electrical currents. There are the brightest names you immediately write onto Christmas cards, the ones that come to mind, and the ones your hand will never write out. It's clear who was genuinely there throughout the year; some seeming to be angels sent on a mission to teach , to show love, to wake me up, and to guide me forward in life, into the unknown territory that I've been viewing from afar but have yet to wander. But, now, with guidance, I wonder...I wonder how far I can go.  For that, I'm forever grateful. For the ones that were only sent for an assignment, thank you and I hope we meet again in whatever capacity that may be. 

The Alchemy of Greif

Greif. A word that has multiple explanations, advice, wisdom and ignorance attached to it. Once the entity has wrapped its rope firmly around you and pulled you under, it's a whirlwind of deep despair, eerie echoey laughter at memories so fond in the mind yet so crushing on the heart. It's a who's-who in the next phase of life. Who is part of a team effort...and who among us is fighting a quiet, individual battle of severance to bliss, equipped with a level of strength we never asked for and never knew was so profound for continuing on to the next day...and the next...and the next. The harshness of grief confirms that life really isn't fair, no matter how we try to spin it. The authority of grief allows me choices on my navigation and exploration of this dimly moonlit forest I've wandered into. The cruelty of grief released the vultures of society, to pick at the leftovers...but only at the perishable fare, accessorizing what once was. The bones and spirit remain with me, where love was planted and now blossoming into full bloom. The nurturance of grief assures me that I'll find my place, and ushers me forward with each small step. The hope of grief showers me with dreams and visions of embrace from the cultivator of my love. The guarantee in all of this? We're not alone.

Discarded into the woods. No map, no direction, just the ache of finding myself, the forest, through the trees; and while sifting through carefully, but with a sense of urgency...somehow, even fear began to look like beauty.

  The music of society is the sound of all of us layered together; footsteps on pavement, delivery trucks at dawn, keys in doors, kids yelling down hallways, quiet keystrokes, protest chants, train brakes, laughter from open windows, whispered prayers, late-night sirens, languages overlapping at crosswalks. It’s not always in tune and not always kind, but it’s alive; a restless, shifting score that reveals who gets heard, who gets silenced, and how we move around each other. When we choose empathy, fairness, and curiosity, it’s like someone adjusts the levels, and suddenly the noise starts to sound a little more like a song we could all belong to.

 I've been publicizing more of my running journeys on social media lately. Mostly in hopes of encouraging others. My running days started in childhood. A friend encouraged me to join our middle school track and field team. We went full force into practicing. It was difficult and I was terrible at it but I still wanted to give it all I had. Unfortunately (cue the violin), a disgruntled school staff member got us kicked off of the team by accusing us of smoking at a track meet. At that time in my life, I had never so much as picked up a cigarette...and I could only imagine the color green I would've turned if I had taken a puff of anything. Oh, the joys of being an outcast student. The devastating experience still crosses my mind every once in a while while I'm mid-race these days...and it motivates me to pick up the pace just a little more. I may never be the fastest or go the farthest distance on foot, but in my heart and mind I've already won.

I’ve outrun the shame that didn’t belong to me, the labels I never asked for, and the voice that said I didn’t belong on the track. Every mile I post isn’t about bragging; it’s a thank you to my younger self for showing up anyway, and an open door for anyone who needs proof that starting over counts.

These days, I measure success in how a hard week becomes softer after a sunrise run. In the "family" and support I've gained from the running community; especially the ones cheering me on recently after knowing I was fighting to continue on after the sudden and tragic death of my caring, loving partner in life. I run because it reminds me I’m allowed to take up space, to try again, to keep going after others tried to bench me.

So if you see my updates, know they're an invitation. We don’t have to be the fastest or the farthest. We just have to be the ones who keep moving. And on the days that old memories flicker, I pick up the pace, not to escape it, but to carry it differently. That’s my finish line now: choosing forward, one step at a time.

  I've always been drawn to others that stand out by not standing out. I wonder if there is a storm brewing inside of their mind, or if they're simply content in their current environment. There is an emotional remoteness that a multitude of living beings experience. Throughout the years, I've examined the paradox of connection; how proximity can still feel like exile. Through layered textures, reflective surfaces, and obscured light, these photographs visualize the unseen distance between souls. Each piece holds a heartbeat suspended in glass, a portrait of warmth unreachable yet desired. 

 The autumn air has been weaving it's way through, soon (hopefully) to take the place of the stagnant summer heat. I love the experience of a fresh, new season beginning. The brisk breeze always prompts my eyes to look upward, and for some reason, the sky seems more vast than it's been in a while, even if grayer. I get a little excited in October to add little pops of eerie flair to my photos. There's something about stark contrasts in light, unexpected reflections and liminal spaces that heighten our senses.  

 The first two photos were taken in 2011 and the third was in 2015. All were an early, misty morning photoshoot during the late summer/early fall season on Amelia Island. There's something about the quiet, serene dawn of the north end of the island that soothes the soul and fills me with contentment. All will be ok, no matter what happens. Breathe in that fresh, salty gust of air, inhale and exhale in sync with the waves. Ground your feet in the cool sand and let your hair fly like streamers into the wind. Use all senses to fully indulge in the moment.

Amelia Island's history is a "story of eight flags," reflecting its control by French, Spanish, British, Patriot, Green Cross, Mexican, Confederate, and U.S. forces after initial Timucuan settlement around 1000 AD. Renamed Amelia in 1735 by James Oglethorpe after a British princess, the island's strategic location led to its frequent transfer between colonial powers and its use as a base for smuggling and pirate activity. It also played a role in the Civil War, with Fort Clinch becoming a Federal stronghold, and later became a significant location for freed Black communities after emancipation.