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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.


In the Evenings


This is where you'll find me.
About a week ago, I carried the watercolor essentials down from the studio and took over the dining room table:
torn cotton paper
water-filled jelly jars
river rocks
enameled trays
a smattering of paint tubes
and of course the usual suspects as well: pencils, brushes, sketchbooks and at least two sets of arm wear.

It's felt cozy, familial, to perch up on this stool with a little black puppy curled around my feet.  To see the tree twinkling out of the corner of my eye.  To have the tea kettle at the ready, or a handful of dried cherries should the mood strike.  To trade carbon-dioxide for oxygen with twenty-one growing, reaching, breathing plants in this tiniest of rooms.  To feel my whole little family close.

And of course, to watch the paint flow.
* * *

Tell me, what have your December evenings held?