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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.



- From my sketchbook writings, July 8th 2010 -

How is it that I lay awake at night, mind rustling with a thousand ideas, rich and thick with inspiration, and the very next morning feel hollow, riddled with existential crisis?
I am HERE, I have the place, the physical space, the time, now
Oh Great Muse
I'm ready to sacrifice all those banal needs, to bend my back the yoke, to plow that great field of my soul. To till that fecund soil, to unearth a glittering gemstone, hold it up to the sun and allow the rainbow of refracted spirit to fall upon my upturned face until my eyes water and weep with the honesty of it.
I'm holding my modest vessel with outstretched arms, outstretched palms, whirling like a dervish for that downpour.
Call my name, I'm listening hard.
Dazzle me with light, my eyes are wide open.
Direct my hands, my fingers are willing.

Just whatever you do, I beg, I plead, don't leave me in darkness. For I can not abide the nothing.


We wrestled yesterday, she and I. And in the end, she dropped a corner of her veil and the light shone through, illuminating certain lines drawn deftly in my sketchbook, certain hopes written only across my heart, and certain fears which seem so great in dusk but lose their potency in the watery light of dawn.

Now this morning she whispers my name, and I realize all over again: these ideas come from my very soul, they will never be lost so long as I am present. They will never be forgotten so long as I keep looking. They will never disappear so long as I am alive. They are in me. They are of me.

And so I work.