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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.


The Path Less Traveled


~ or ~
A short story of where my feet have wandered over the past two weeks.
I left the wilderness of the North in a flurry of snow; unheard of drifts piled along these ocean highways, pristine crystal structures glinting in turn as they fell fast and thick, then melted in a blaze of sun.  As the ice clung I drove slow, mesmerized: This winter I've been touched with a sort of reverse seasonal affect disorder - a slight panic with the lack of cold, a deep desire to see fat flakes dusting the earth, a pining for the ache of cold that reminds us just how alive we are.  In truth, I've prayed for winter to touch down on this coastal town.  And on the day I drove out, the day I finished radiation, the snow fell and I laughed out loud, childlike in sheer delight.  I felt like Noah seeing the rainbow, the dove returning with the branch.  As though the snow was my very own promise of life after the flood.
* * * * *
Two words: sugar coma.  And red dye number 40 be damned, but that cake quite literally took the cake, reducing a gaggle of grown women to squealing and clapping like preschoolers at a roller skating party.  A party with lemon drops made by the pitcher that is.  Nothing like getting tipsy with the fam, eh?
* * * * *
I played with fire.
I smacked hammers.
I snuggled with the studio mascot.
The truth is, I am ever hungry to learn, hungry to explore new art forms and determine if and how they compliment and inform my own art.  I never want to grow stale, trapped in the verbiage of labels ("I am a painter" or "I am a seamstress."  No, I am a free ARTIST, and the song of my soul is as complex as the movements of my fingertips and the truth I seek is the translation of the message written on my heart).
* * * * *
In the expanse of coming Spring, I stretch out my fingers and feel only sunshine.  There is peace cultivated here, heart-space, head-space, space to expand my ribcage wide, space to feel the beating of my living.  All nature intrinsically knows the globe turns, the seasons come, and the sun will warm our bones.
* * * * *
Over the course of two weeks I felt the chill of snow numbing my toes, the wind whipping my skirts into an inappropriate frenzy, the rain thundering, rainbows spanning the skies and the turn of the tide as bare skin answered the call of the spring.  The day I drove out, the hillsides grew lush and the sky flushed cobalt, cumulous clouds hung like accessories.

I can hardly believe it's already been two weeks.  Today the rain is pouring down sideways, a purr machine is flicking his tail on my lap and my house feels like Sunday.  I'm home.  And I've missed you like the dickens.  Let's make some magic, ok?

~ Umber ~