There they stood, slightly moving in the summer breeze, painting the landscape with vibrant red and blue hues, as if in defiance of the lack of moisture in the Texas summer heat. The rutted wildflower path that required my constant attention became a teacher. Through sensory awareness, my concentration became
The Sunday Letter was my way of commenting on my life through my relationship with nature, but it didn't start that way. Like all things, over time as my confidence grew and my natural self emerged from the shadows, something shifted. The way we are taught to write
There is a curious and uncomfortable thing about writing that I find liberating. Trying to be your everyday self while allowing the voices under the surface, above you, or around you to appear on the page is impossible. This is why writing with nature helped me rehabilitate my yearning to
In our truck leaving Wyoming years later, I sat staring out the window, noticing the changing landscapes and transitions between each one. A new journal sitting in my lap, I began to fill it with impressions of those places that captured my attention. The patina of an old tin roof,
I have spent much of my life navigating change, some rapid, some slow, both internal and external. Born with a creative constitution, my internal need for change can disrupt my equally strong wish for stability. It is this understanding of my polarities that allows me to ebb and flow in
She walked in unhurried, her long grey hair braided down her back. Her well-worn jeans and soft leather cowboy boots made her look as if she’d walked straight of a movie set, but this authentic Wyoming woman was the real deal. She spoke slowly as she removed her wool