I’m nearly nestled back into the flow of things.

Back to work.

Back to house.

A long day of photographing called for a much needed break.

I went to the kitchen put the kettle on and collected my favorite mug.

I pulled out this scrumptious loose leaf tea by: Lindsay Luna -Tea Goddess- that I received at the Call of the Wild Soul Art Retreat.

It’s beautiful floral petals, rosy and marigold.

The texture.

The smell.

I closed my eyes and remembered all the dreams that have come true over the last two weeks.

All the memories of Petaluma flooded back to me.

The rich intoxicating landscape.

All the new sisters I have met.

All the doors flung wide open in my heart.

And all the layers I left behind.

I sat and remembered my dreams and future realities.

I remembered my peace.

Thank you for the many gifts you have given me.

I am more deeply me because of them.

The magic made her weep.

Weep for all the things she took for granted.

And all the hurt she had cause.

The magic made her smile.

Smile for all the beauty she had witnessed.

And for all the love she had given.

Anais Nin writes:

“To say that the artist is not serving humanity is monstrous.

He has been the eyes, the ears, the voice of humanity.

He was always the transcendentalist who X-rayed our true states of being.”

-Arriving late last night to a city I have dreamed of for many years.

A fog cradled city full of beaches, trolleys, activists.

A city I dreamed to be full of artists who sit in cafes and drink their doppio’s, while creating masterpieces.

I am here with the most beautiful Erin Faith Allen supporting her at “Call of the Wild Soul.”

Being among other humans who create deep soulful connections and art has revived me.

Already I can feel my veins pulsing to a different beat.

Dancing electrically.

I am alive and living one of my dreams.

I am traveling, creating and connection on deep levels and I feel:

Full.

Suple.

Intoxicated.

I have so many days ahead of me.

This is just the begining…

The slow roll of smoke filling your mouth.

The smell of wood smoldering.

Your father playing duck, duck, goose with his grandchildren.

Cool afternoons where time drags in the most precious way.

Allowing

just for a little while

everything to be in it’s place.