ear’s eve.


A group of rowdy filmmakers also decided to spend this unseasonably warm evening at my favorite coffeehouse. Riddled with character, it sports rickety wooden floors throughout, complete with hip baristas and book borrowing based on the honor system.

With a little too much hesitation, one of them speaks up:

I need to go call my mom…

The other two erupt, laughing and poking fun, but are quick to assure their friend of the truth we all know:


In Denver during the month of March, I would not expect the sun to blind me the way it does when I look up from my journal. Mouth half open, I consider inserting myself in their playful bantering–

but what am I to say?

There is a certain art in this aloneness. After only two months of practice, I am learning how to consult my mother in her altered form. Whether through long-handing or cartwheeling or breath alone, she remains with me here in the present.

It is merely a matter of my being present also.



When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” -Audre Lorde

A recurrent concern in deciding to blog again has been the gazillion blogs in existence today. Insecurities fueled by self doubt, hindered by the belief that there is only so much “audience” to go around, I have chosen to keep things to myself. It is the perfect excuse not to write.

Calling bullshit on that TODAY.

As artists, all beings are the audience. What we create and emit is felt everywhere, by all things, whether or not direct consumption occurs. In choosing not to express, there is contribution to suffering. Art is merely the demonstration–the reminding–of the inherent freedom accessible to all. This grounded, collective view of creation negates the many fears associated with comparison.

All art is relevant.