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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.


Sketchbook Writings


~ From my sketchbook writings, Thursday April 5th, 2012 ~
I saw the first amethyst blooms of the lupines today.  I don't know why that flower holds such a potency in my heart.  Why it makes me feel hoary and timeworn, even as they spring up from the sandy earth in a flush of youth.
This brings me to the ancestors.  My own lineage is pockmarked with great holes of unknowing which leaves me free to wonder:
Have my people always needed water, great, dark rushing bodies and the physical sensation of tides?  Were they struck dumb, hearts cracked open at the permeating energy of ancient redwoods?  Did they always wear feathers in their hair, were they always the familiars of the red hawks?  Did they believe the white tailed deer understood them, and feel a sympathetic trembling in their tendons?  Did they scan the undergrowth for ferns before staking camp, did they run fingers along spore spines?  Did they whisper wishes for raven calls at sunrise and gray foxes in the night?  Did they leave a lock of hair for the cedar, offer the best blackberry to the birds, gift song to the sweet peas, and rock on their heels, breathing thanks for stone treasures, wood treasures, bone treasures?
I guess what I'm truly asking is this:
Did they realize, each Spring, just how much breath they held waiting for the lupines to bloom?
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