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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.



When the marine layer breaks

The house feels quiet and slow, like stretching toes into warm sand.
I'm eating pita chips and the last cold dregs of breakfast tea, wearing the comfiest pants I own.
The haphazard composition of empty avocado shell, used knife, pointed tomato stems and dirty cutting board still on the counter from breakfast pleases my eye.
The cats had a fight, scaring me and littering the grass outside with tuffs of orange and brown hair.
I've been looking at the photos I took when SHE was here, thinking about that long walk through wide fields, the way the fog rolled in over our heads, the sunlight becoming surreal, the way we spoke of noticing the small things, the minute details, of being so intentional.  And how bad we needed to pee while still three miles out from the house.

I had a vision a couple days ago, a vision of the painting sort.  I had to set my other paintings aside, slice off a huge swatch of fabric and stretch a new canvas that day.  It's coming along, a dangerous sort of beauty, gray and undulating and I can hear it calling my name all the way from the studio.  I think I'll pop the kettle on, mix up a fresh pot of tea and answer.