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I am UmberDove.

And by that, I mean an artist.  One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.


Sticks and Stones are My Bones


Camping, part II.

I did a lot of sitting by the river, letting the clear mountain water strip away the banality of my stress. And I picked up sticks. Long straight ones, shorts curved ones, all washed clean by the river, all bright shining in the sun.

When my collection was great enough (and yes, they were perfectly organized by size and shape) I began to build. Meditative processes work for me like a labyrinth: As I progress, I leave behind the noise in my head and move toward a state of quiet in which I can acknowledge the spirituality of a place. Distractions no longer exist, in their place a beautiful recognition of space takes over.

When I was finished, the nest remained (through the rest of the week, each day disintegrating a little as the wind striped off the tiniest of twigs) and I was left with internal calm and great thankfulness.