The Huntress

This is a land story.

Now I know, I know, I'm always telling land stories but these are my truth.  When my feet wander trails tracked only by elk, when the dusk turns snowy peaks sherbet, when creek thaw and lichen mingle in my hair, something happens in my chest.  It's like ten thousand tiny shutters flap open and all that is good in me sees all that is grand on earth.

It begins with coffee, as all great stories do, and a sturdy pair of rubber boots.  It begins with the Ridge at your back and the Mountain to your left.  You stroll along the treeline, boots squishing wetly in the constant rivulets and still pools, dogs crashing a zig-zag in front.  You train your eyes to follow a circuit: gaze the skies (watch the geese in tight formation, watch the solitary eagle lazily circling), back to the trees (they're bare now, look for the dark wedge of nests), sweep the ground (you're bound to find an antler soon), scan the horizon (breath in the mountain cold).  Feel the spring of moss; of course this will make your hands dirty, of course a couple winged things will flutter up, but nothing beats that touch. Jump hard when the dogs accidentally flush a northern spotted owl just fifteen feet to the right, and call out your thanks and apologies.  Pluck that cluster of bright white hair from the thorny brambles and tuck it in a pocket, you'll figure it out later.  Take that green and sun-aged piece of hipbone, leave it in the birch grove (because you know that is holy ground).  And when you finally turn back and take the long way, leave a single strand of hair in exchange for your full heart.

The Huntress Ring

(sterling silver and Arizona Morenci turquoise)

(she's here right now)

It's a slow, rolling sort of morning.  The crows left bones below the cedars and the coffee went down too easy.  I walked to the grocery for rice milk and avocados but arrived home with butter and chocolate chips.  Harlem jazz is creeping out the single pane windows and swinging down the street with the fog, and from the office, I can hear BC snapping in time.  I've been thinking about alignment.  I've been thinking about shed hunting.  I've been painting fecundity too.  I made two rings for you; they're filled with breath and balance and kyanite and the arcing glow of burnished sterling.  It's good to be alive.

Like No One's Watching

You are never too old to dance around like an utter fool.
Also,
I'm feeling back to life!  Hooray!

Down and Out

So THIS is that super flu I've been hearing about.  Our house is officially a quarantine zone and I've been laid out lower than I have felt in years.  

That to say, I'm behind in all forms of correspondence and only have plans of crawling back beneath the blankets and chain-drinking echinacea tea.  Please forgive the delays and I'll see you all next week.  Stay HEALTHY friends!

Down the Rabbit Hole

Down the Rabbit Hole Clutch
(vintage rabbit fur, textured hide, buttery suede, rivets and a loop closure in hand-drawn and enameled copper)

One part tribute, one part nature, and about thirty parts boho rock and roll.  A little bit of dream, a lot a bit of wonder, a dash of song-singing and a whole scoop of rump shakin'.  It's one of those pieces that just feels good, like a streak of wildfire in the soul and the bass beat of the heart.  Ba-boom baby.  
(and naturally, she's in the shop right now!)