I thought the Earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts,
her pockets full of lichens and seeds.
— Mary Oliver
 


There is something undeniable about the ancestral connection and boundless medicine from a landscape; in the holy union between place and human that is slow to form, yet eternal once bonded.

In today’s world, communing with a landscape can be somewhat of a lost art. We are quick to visit a place, take a picture, and leave; or maybe, find a plant to wildcraft — forage, and leave.

It took growing into adulthood to mentally comprehend what it appears my body and soul had already known. An act our wild ancestors, without question, understood as important and necessary to remain in connection to Creator. That in returning to the same place time and time again and in the undeniable draw to certain landscapes, we come home — to ourselves and to the wild. We create relationship, with more than just a single wave of the ocean, or tree among a forest — but with an entire ecosystem. We learn the secret symphony of small patches of the Earth. With each return, we are greeted and with each goodbye, there is a sweet longing.

The skins of needing to see as many as places as possible shed in our return to the wisdom of our bones; that within one place, there is a thousand places. And in the act of returning, the art of presence, and the outpouring of gratitude, these dimensions slowly—like a shy flower—open, and we are reminded of a song that we may have forgot existed.

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There have been two distinct landscapes that I have been birthed and grown by — the crystalline pacific ocean + psychedelic deserts of Southern California and the lush, rainy feminine forests + magnificent mountains of the Pacific Northwest.

Southern California grew me; my body comes from the ocean. I feel that I have spent lifetimes among her vastness, swimming in her tears, surrendering to her undulations. It was among the pacific ocean, sacred white sage, prickly pear, ocotillo and Joshua Tree’s that I embraced my love for the natural world.

Oregon initiated me into womanhood. At age 23, I packed up and left the chaparral and palms behind to meet myself in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. It was here, with the elk and the roses, amidst the cedars and the running rivers — that I came home to the child I had left behind and the woman I was becoming.

Both of these places have shaped me in unspeakable ways. It is with great reverence and gratitude that I am able to bring you these collections.

My hope is that they remind you of your own connection to a landscape, and softly but surely call you home to her, so that you may continue to meet yourself there, again and again.