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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.



Ringlets are my middle name.  Names.  Er...
I feel it is highly necessary to keep you well informed on the state of my head.  More specifically, my head which is now covered with a plethora of ringlets that, were I six years old and slightly shorter than my nearly six feet, I could pass for Shirley Temple (oh god.  How badly did I just date myself?  I had the WORST situation of realizing my age a while back now when BC and I asked a couple of teenagers at the frozen yogurt shop which of the two of us did a better Mr. T impression.  They didn't even know who he was.  A-Team? No idea.  We were crushed and, apparently, old.  And just so you know, the answer to the question is ME, I make a better Mr. T. because I've got soul in my blood and I sound more like a large black man than BC).

(I don't even know where this post is headed)

(That's dangerous this time of night, when my thoughts are pinging off the walls and my eyelids snapped back from too much excitement)

Oh yes!
I have a mop of curls that should be laying themselves down to bed, to rest before the pre-dawn drive to the airport in four short hours.  If you are in the Salt Lake City area Thursday morning around 9:00 am, I'm just going to apologize ahead of time for the sonic boom followed by squeals that will happen when three ladies all converge on the same stretch of land at the same time for the first time and board a car pointed north.
I can't convince my brain to sleep I'm so excited.  My basil ganglia is in a state of overdrive with feet tapping, ribcage swaying and some definite head bopping.
* * *

I want to talk to you about moths.  Really I want to talk to every last man, woman and child about moths.  These particular creatures, flying near as the sun dips behind the redwoods, look more like little lion men than winged insects.  They stick their furred legs to the doorframes and shake their tiny manes and I'm fairly certain I've heard them let out microscopic roars.
Moths, nocturnal beasts, do not fumble in the dark.  In the deep of night, their wings still beat steadily, their feet still step solidly.  They may be slight, fragile, even seemingly insignificant but there is such a wisdom in that assuredness.  I want to move like that even when my soul is covered in night, when the dark days threaten to overtake me.
To beat my wings.
To set my feet down.
To walk with sure steps.

I'm still working on it, still learning, still studying and collecting my thoughts.  But I'm listening for moths.  Waiting for them.
* * *
I love this beast.

Let the record show!

Sancho wanted me to share this photo with you and let you know how much he appreciates all the love and care we have been sent.  That, and he's a slightly narcissistic pup who really likes to have his photo taken (he KNOWS how sexy he is.  But he wants to hear it from you too).  He is already healing nicely, both inside and out (which was clear after a fantastic session at a doggie play group this morning).

But this to say again;
I'm so consistently in awe of the goodness of the friends I've made here, in the wide world of the internet.  There was a time when my faith in humanity was faltering, when I was in danger of mistrust in the basic beauty of humankind.
This space, this blog, serves as an eternal reminder back to me that people, my people, my tribe, are so inherently good.
And that means you.
Thank you for your you-ness.  I wouldn't have it any other way.
Good Night!
~ Umber ~