The girl creative…

She moves through the morning like a pink rose unfolding…that is soft, defiant, unapologetically alive. An all seeing eye through the camera lens.


Her hands, smeared in fuchsia, birth both tragic and triumphant worlds from oil and canvas. She dreams in burnt sienna, ochre, and ultramarine; and nightmares into midnight black.


She sculpts silence into form by shaping clay with the same tenderness she offers to withering plants in the garden. Each leaf she coaxes back to green feels like a hymn whispered through dirt and time, as she spins her vision on the potter’s wheel seeking recognition, recovery, and redemption.

So there is a holy wind of inspiration that dances in her studio, and it knows her by name. Joy and fire doesn’t just visit her, it camps out, by playing bass guitar riffs that chase away doubt and drag shadows into the light, by the vibration of the didgeridoo that divines and diverges, by the rain drum that thunders through a happy birthday song, and the ocarina that cuts through misunderstanding and judgment.


I’ve watched her grin from ear to ear, not for attention, but because the cosmos conspired just right inside her chest in a supernova of creativity. Even her quiet moments pulse with inspiration’s fire, as if the divine is practicing how to be human through her. And there is something endearing and eternal, in the way she carries beauty like breath, not performance.

She is raw, aware and awe inspiring! She is the girl created, creative, creating.