I didn’t find this work.
I was born into it.
And life would eventually change the way I understood everything I'd always carried.
My mother was a Feldenkrais practitioner, aromatherapist, and channel.
My father was a truck driver, Vietnam veteran, and practitioner of Tai Chi and Qi Gong. He carried an extraordinary sensitivity to the world around him.
They questioned what went into our bodies.
They understood the natural world as medicine.
They taught me, long before I had language for it, that life was larger and stranger than what could be seen.
I didn't discover holistic living.
I grew up inside it.
For years, I explored that sense of mystery through every doorway that opened.
Theater. Writing. Painting. Collage. Spiritual study. Expressive arts.
I followed my curiosity, sometimes with teachers and traditions to guide me, and sometimes simply by making things and seeing what happened.
I wasn't searching for one perfect way to express myself.
I was living a creative life.
And over time, that life would ask me to bring all those different languages together in ways I couldn't yet imagine.
My mother called me at 3am.
I heard it in her voice before I understood what was happening.
Seven days later, my father was gone too.
I was an only child, standing in the house where I had grown up, suddenly alone in a way I had never known.
My whole life, I had moved through the world with my parents at my back.
Somewhere beneath everything I knew, I believed that as long as they were alive, I was safe.
The ground did not hold.
I had already known loss — through stillbirth, through the deaths of friends and mentors, through sitting beside my daughter as she lost her childhood best friend.
I had language for grief.
I had tools.
I had spent years learning how to hold space for others moving through it.
Grief didn't care.
It asked something different of me.
Not to understand it.
To enter it.
So I began working with what was there.
One thing at a time. As consciously as I was able.
I followed what kept opening.
Sometimes that meant writing.
Sometimes it meant making art.
Sometimes I entered the Akashic Records or worked with Human Design. Sometimes I needed Yoga Nidra and rest. Sometimes ritual. Sometimes movement. Sometimes I simply needed to sit inside the question long enough for something I couldn't yet name to take form.
Each doorway gave me another language.
Eventually, those languages began speaking to one another.
And something that was no longer a collection of practices began to emerge.
It became my work.
I'm not teaching from the other side of a completed journey.
I'm living a human life.
I have three children, a marriage, a changing body, a house full of animals, bills, unfinished tasks, and a family that is still healing.
I forget things.
I get overwhelmed.
I do not always sleep well.
I nap.
I have no interest in pretending to be a finished product.
I am a woman who decided, in the middle of the unravelling rather than after it, to stay curious, keep expressing, and live as consciously as I could.
That decision built everything you see here.
Somewhere in all of that, I stopped trying to find a title that could contain every different thing I do.
Writer. Artist. Teacher. Facilitator. Storyteller. Seeker.
None of them were wrong.
None of them held the whole thing.
What I finally understood was that the medium was never the through-line.
Story was.
I've always been drawn to what lives beneath the surface of things. The mystery, the beauty, the uncomfortable, the absurd, the sacred hiding in the ordinary.
I receive what is difficult to name, give it language and form, and make it available to others.
Sometimes that form is a story.
Sometimes it is art.
Sometimes a meditation, a practice, a conversation, a workshop, a live experience, or something that doesn't have a name yet.
I call that Shamanic Story Art.
And I call myself a Shamanic Story Artist.
Why Shamanic Story Artist?
For me, creating art and story is itself a shamanic practice. It's a way of entering into relationship with the visible and invisible worlds, listening to what emerges through imagination, symbols, intuition, and the body, and giving form to what I discover.
My years of studying and practicing soul shamanism have deepened this relationship, but the impulse has been with me for as long as I can remember.
I don't separate the art from the practice. They are part of the same conversation.
But I was making art long before I knew what to call it.
I've spent decades moving between painting, collage, poetry, theater, storytelling, and expressive arts. I've made books out of canvases, gathered images into unexpected relationships, and followed ideas simply because they made me curious.
Some of that work has been shared publicly. Some has lived quietly in my home. Some was made for my children. Some was made for no one but me.
All of it belongs to the same creative life.
What I bring to my work is not simply a collection of trainings or techniques. It's a lifetime of curiosity, creative exploration, lived experience, and a willingness to meet both beauty and difficulty without needing to know in advance what they will become.
I built what I needed and could not find.
I needed a place where grief could be held mythically.
A world large enough to contain loss, joy, memory, desire, childhood, ancestry, creativity, identity, and possibility.
The Midnight Carnival became that world.
Written in thirty days, it brought together so much of what I'd been exploring throughout my life: theater, storytelling, visual imagery, spiritual inquiry, and the strange, beautiful experience of being human.
Grief was part of its creation. But so were decades of imagination.
It was a story I needed to tell, and I gave myself permission to tell it in my own way.
And then I published it.
The book left me with a question.
Now that you remember — how will you show up?
The Remembering grew from that question.
A living community and body of work where insight is not the endpoint.
Where we practice, create, question, witness, experiment, and return.
Again and again.
But these are not the only forms my work will take.
There are paintings still waiting to be made. Stories waiting for the stage. Images to gather, questions to explore, and creative adventures I haven't imagined yet.
This is a living body of work.
It will keep becoming.
I make art because I am endlessly fascinated by the experience of being human.
By the stories we carry.
By the things we remember and the things we forget.
By the ordinary moments that somehow contain entire worlds.
I am drawn to mystery, beauty, humor, grief, contradiction, and the places where the visible world seems to touch something we cannot quite name.
Sometimes I explore those places alone.
Sometimes through a book, a painting, or a performance.
And sometimes I invite others to explore alongside me.
I don't create because I believe I have the answers to your life.
I create because story, art, imagination, spiritual practice, and community can open places in us that explanation alone cannot reach.
My work is an invitation.
To listen.
To question.
To create.
To remember.
To inhabit more of your own life.
And if something in what I make recognizes something in you —
come in.
There is room for all of you.
You don’t have to arrive finished.
You only have to arrive.