The other day, while I wandered past the lily pond, a poem began to write itself in my mind. I hurried home, aware that it would vanish...

A prose poem - a reflection between collecting and polishing rocks, and the work of spirituality.

I've been in transition - between seasons, if you will. What was pushing upward through the layers of my subconscious, asking to be born?

The matted palm fibres never cease to fascinate me; they're so tactile, so regular, almost as though they had been woven by hand.

It was a warm, sunny Saturday, and we decided on the spur of the moment to drive up to Los Alamos in the Central Coast wine country.

It’s early July and I’m back in Santa Barbara, my second home.

It’s that time again – for my annual visit to SoCal! The Travelling Artist is on her way! It’s the end of June, 2024, and tomorrow I head...

I found this segment of palm foliage. I thought it looked like loose ribbon weaving, and I wondered about the origins of the craft.