This work: It’s in my blood, my bones.

I was born in eastern Tennessee to people with Kudzu-endurance, the descendent daughter of a long line of railroad crewman, farmers, bar-flies, a few county fair queens, coyotes and old dogs, healers and more than a few rumored mountain witches. Sure, there were painters, poets and dreamers in our bunch, too, but that work was done by moonlight.

It was during the quarantine, when we all hushed and let nature speak up, that the bones first called to me. I dreamed of the wooden bowl and the soul-soothing crack of a handful of found items being dropped into its embrace. I could not shake that sound for weeks. During meditation one day, I asked for more divine guidance: Send me that bowl.

The bowl came to me by way of a local woodworker who had carved it and set it aside, unsure of what its purpose would be until a chance conversation left us both with chills. With the bowl, I asked again for divine guidance: Send me the speaking-pieces.

And they came. Buttons. Wishing stones. A pocket-watch I carried through my first pregnancy. An opal ring. My great-grandmother’s thimble. Creek glass. A skull whittled out of an old, hickory stick. Dried orange peels with “I love you” written in a child’s hand. Bones discovered in river beds and in my mother-in-law’s Buttercup patch.

Each piece tells an energy story—sometimes as a whisper and sometimes as a roar.

With each reading, I meditate with the paper or canvas first to prepare to communicate with the energy of the recipient of the work. I slip my hand into the bag and the pieces find their way into my hand. I cast them into the bowl and study the color, position and energy of the reading. I write the reading on the back, making notes on the time, moon phase and materials I’ll use in the work. When words begin to fail me, I begin painting. I believe that I get the great privilege of being a translator between you and divine sources to create this color conversation. It is a message meant just for you.