ARTIST | WRITER | MYSTIC
I remember sitting in the backyard at the paint-chipped picnic table with a pen and piece of paper. I didn't know how to read or write, but I was curious about the marks I had seen people make on paper. I watched the ink curl and loop, willing to go wherever I moved the pen. I didn't have names for these loops, Ls and Js and Ms, but I knew that they were some kind of code for what might happen in the world.
If you could put the ls and js in a column on a piece of paper, when you went to the store, they would tell you what to put in your cart. You could scratch a few on the back of a receipt and before you knew it, the pool was up, the swing got fixed, the dog had a bath. My mother looked at the js and ls and knew how to make a cake. I wanted that kind of power.
By 11, I’d devised a code of my own, writing poetry, which I learned from my mother, who had learned it from hers. Through poetry, I coaxed the ls and js and ms to talk about Big Questions, all the things no one talked about at the dinner table.
My sophomore year in high school, I needed an elective. I signed up for something called journalism, which the counselor said was about writing. I wrote one story and they made me features editor. The next year, editor in chief. In my first job after college I learned about typography—the intersection of art and writing. That got me a job at an advertising agency, where I learned copywriting. The ls and js and ms were even paying my bills.
I still write poetry, copy, and to-do lists. Over the years I've written for newspapers and magazines. I've written obituaries and book reviews. And lately, I've added blogging, texting and writing two books to the list, too. That's a lot of ls and js.
My writing has won awards from the Society of Professional Journalists, the Washington Poets Society, and Cascadia.
That's me, exiting the gallery in Santa Fe after my first show there. That look on my face. You can almost hear me thinking, "OMG pinch me."
I'm a mostly self-taught painter, working/playing in acrylics and mixed media. In the 90s, after my son flew the coop, I immersed myself in creativity. I taught myself watercolor first, and then acrylics. My body of work focuses almost exclusively on birds' nests, although I've done several series of both abstract and figurative works.
I'm a human being. I don't have a Ph.D. I've never been on Oprah. I'm not a teacher or a guru. What I am is a mystic who has seen some Holy Shit.
As an introvert, I’d just as soon continue flying under the radar, without drawing attention to what I’m doing. And yet, I know what I’ve stumbled upon has the ability to open an amazing spiritual adventure to those who are willing and interested. So here I am hanging out my Holy Shit shingle. As for the genus, Mystic was the closest I could come.
At the age of 13, I journeyed to the mountains (about 80 miles) to contemplate the meaning of life and to have a direct experience of God, an innocent, but ambitious goal. It was an Initiation, an unguided Vision Quest. Logically, it could have led to unthinkable horrors, of which I was too naive to even comprehend. Instead, I was almost magically provided for, a series of people crossing my path with beyond-fortuitous timing.
I've spent many years studying and attracting synchronicity. From there, I began experimenting with asking for synchronicity - three signs in 48 hours as a form of guidance. I have some mind-blowing stories, a collection of which I am weaving into a spiritual memoir.
And just so we're clear, a mystic is not the same thing as a saint. Very different things.
Dream Hatching emerged out of my own Dream to become an artist.
Over the course of a dozen years, I painted hundreds of nests. And throughout that time, I contemplated the concepts of gestation, transformation, and manifestation — that threshold through which something new enters the physical world.
Now I have a new Dream:
to share the stories of how the Universe blew my mind, over and over in support of my Dream. Crazy stuff. Things that would have taken me years to orchestrate that simply fell into place.