Stand where your inner and outer worlds meet, even if it means standing alone—better solitude than a hollow multitude.
Just because we have two eyes doesn’t guarantee depth of vision. Often, we blind ourselves, seeing only what society dictates. Self-portrait, for me, is part of that seeing. Art helps me express the duality I live with—parts of me that go numb, and others that awaken with color. Both exist. Both are true.
Some wounds don’t close. They don’t need to. They carve new rivers— and you learn to rule them. My mother’s strength runs beneath Rio Abajo Rio— a place where blood remembers, and silence speaks. **Notebook 5/18 Mom, the bite came and I let it in like rain. Pressed it deep into Rio Abajo Rio— where blood remembers, and pain speaks in color. I drank its heart, stitched its night into the seams of my veins. Burned—then bloomed.
I’ll keep turning lemons into lemon trees. All I ask in return: sing your song.
I like you, your eyes are full of language.
Our eyes witness the outer world as surely as they sense the inner terrain. Two eyes don’t guarantee depth; we often choose the blindfold and see only what we’re taught. The childlike spark that flares when we love, make, or cook with care is a footprint to the soul—tender yet guiding. Numbing it to fit in breeds a hollow crowd. Know what dims your light and hold one word: pursue. Pursue without apology. Create, don’t merely consume. Add your colors to the tapestry. Stand where your inner and outer worlds meet, even if it means standing alone—better solitude than a hollow multitude. Sign your falls with your own colors. Turn inward; refine; weave what you know with intention. The promise is simple: attention within yields the richest life. No one can be you as deeply as you can. This life is precious—look inside.
The Appetite for Wonder: They called it "The Dream."
Blossoming in rawness/ Self-portrait A gust of air breathed life into the heart of the mud, bringing forth wings and healing wounds as they emerged. With a golden breath of air, she found the strength to spread her wings, replacing those once lost. Line of cream-brown-red stripes adorned her, akin to the touch of a hawk at her heart.
Flower Warriors is a series that explores the human potential that can come from the soil—inspired by the muddy soil, petrichor, snowdrop flowers, and the idea of thriving no matter what.
Embodiment of ideas left their marks behind. A sense of direction In the midst of I-Ness. Happening at a timeless pace. As you conjoin into nothingness. Singularity in the gracious twinkling of stars Infinite Density of creation A single beat on stand by. As you zealously unseal beating red glaze from her left shoulder, to anew the beginning of the end. Cosmic aliveness of the dual. Becoming. One.
Silent gaps into the freedom of the unknown.
"A Peacock Mind" captures a metaphorical self-portrait of my inner being. It delves into the essence of confidence and pride that resides within one's spirit. Just as a peacock's physical appearance mesmerizes with its striking display of feathers, it becomes a symbol of artistic empowerment. The mind, much like the peacock's majestic presence, possesses boundless potential, yet can also be constrained. It's within our freedom, even amidst walls, that we recognize our true liberation. We hold the power to shatter any limitations if we choose to embrace our inherent strength.
Wild women are an inexplicable spark. They spill freedom, they seek awareness. They belong to no one but themselves— yet gift a piece of their magic to everyone they meet. If you meet one, hold on. She’ll invite you into the chaos, and she’ll show you her light.
To know a person’s true name means to know the soul attributes of that person. But that name often kept secret.
I like you, your eyes are full of language.