• Even in pieces
    the soft flower on concrete
    bestows complete grace.

  • My Embodiment

    I have this instrument, my embodiment, which in my philosophy consists of body and spirit. The two work in tandem. Often, we get so carried away with physical “realities” that our spirit is left to languish, and then we wonder why life seems empty. It is of utmost importance to me that I pay attention to spirit, that I listen to that still small voice, hear the music, smell the flowers.

    Just as we attempt to interpret our nocturnal dreams by paying attention to symbols, colors, characters, actions, localities, words, we can cultivate the openness to interpret the “waking dream” of our life. Art is like a dream snapshot. When I create a piece of art, I know it is trying to tell me something, help me understand an aspect of my life. In fact, every stage of creating that piece of artwork will also add to my understanding, if I practice being open to what it has to offer.

  • Broken, Fully Stitched

    When I am stitching a paper piece like this, it is quite hypnotic. I admit to getting a little carried away, stitching each and every blob of paint or change of color. I could have just chosen a few highlights of stitch, here and there, or maybe just an outline, or just the face. There are many choices as to what to stitch: I chose everything.

  • Love Cornered

    The heart heading into the corner spoke to me: don’t our hearts sometimes feel that way? Cornered? And yet, we always have the choice of who and what to love.

    Don’t we?

  • My Body Sits, My Mind Flits

    I am figuring out, as I stitch, what I want to do next. It is a repetitive, soothing, yet strangely stimulating activity. My body is still, except for those slight hand movements, but my mind is flitting from idea to idea, and possibility to possibility.

  • We Were Made For These Times

    I have heard from so many recently who are deeply and properly bewildered. They are concerned about the state of affairs in our world right now. It is true, one has to have strong cojones and ovarios to withstand much of what passes for “good” in our culture today. Abject disregard of what the soul finds most precious and irreplaceable and the corruption of principled ideals have become, in some large societal arenas, “the new normal,” the grotesquerie of the week.

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