Opening Night: Zen Rabbits

A handful of my Zen Rabbits hopped into the world for this show — quiet companions born from charcoal, breath, and the stillness between thoughts. Each one carries a whisper of calm, a moment of pause in a world that rarely stops moving. I drew them during mornings wrapped in silence, when the mind softened and the hand simply followed the heart. Seeing them on the wall — simple, tender, unguarded — felt like watching peace take shape.

The Things That Hold On

I’ve claimed old “Cliff things” over the years and woven them into my studio and life—at first as a way to move through grief, and always as a way to honor his presence.

Cliff had so many tire chains draped from the stout branches of the trees around his cabin, it was as if the forest itself wore his handiwork. I’ve since used those chains to adorn not only my studio, but also his cabin—now a vacation rental—and his old sawmill, which is slowly being transformed into an office and workshop for Raymond.

The curvy tractor wrenches are a collection of my own—gathered slowly over time, but with new devotion during the quiet solitude of Covid.

Crystals and rust. Stones and glass. Spirit and steel.

But the most precious tradition of all—the one that still makes my heart catch—is the springtime hanging plant.

Every spring, Cliff used to bring a plant to brighten the front of my studio—his quiet way of showing up, of tending. He’d hook it onto the frilly, wrought iron hanger outside my door, like clockwork.

The first spring after he passed, my mother-in-law arrived with a plant in hand and a card that simply said the plant was from Cliff.

I cried. Hard.

That spring, I gently hung the old timber sling hook—one Cliff once used—onto the frilly one. Then I hung the “Cliff plant” from it.

Some gestures are more than tradition.
They’re echoes of love…

A Quiet Sendoff from an Old Companion

bronze bison sculpture at Bozeman Airport

There’s a quiet comfort in finding an old friend just when you’re about to leave — even if he’s made of bronze. I carved him from Black Walnut in my 20s — and frankly, he carved a part of me.

Now, decades later, he waits, steady and silent — a patient companion at the threshold of so many journeys. I leave, I return — and still, he waits, steady as the mountains that first shaped us both.

Mother’s Day at the Filigree Altar

The grouse began drumming as the sun was just beginning to streak pink across the horizon—a low, rhythmic pulse echoing through the trees, like the forest remembering the heartbeat of spring.

Barefoot, I stepped onto the soft green grass. The earth, still dappled with patches of melting snow, welcomed me with a chill and the thrum of new life.

I carried a steaming cup of ceremonial cacao to the small, white filigree garden set—an heirloom once belonging to my grandmother, then my mother. Their hands touched it. Their stories linger in its delicate curves.

As a child, I held tea parties for stuffed animals and imaginary friends on that delicate-looking furniture when it beckoned to me from the manicured lawn of my grandparents’ Nebraska farm. Now an altar, the white, doily-like filigree carries more than its weight in wrought iron—it holds memory, moonlight, magic, and the soft laughter of children across time.

I sat. I prayed. I sipped. Heart open, I honored the women who shaped me—now beyond the veil, yet so deeply present. Their love stirs in the breeze, shimmers in sunlight, and wakens the motherliness in my bones.

Izar

“I felt compelled to look at ‘Izar.’ My focus immediately spiraled into his eye. I felt jolted, shaken, and then flooded with soothing waves. As if I was being held, contracted with and released. It was something…flow.”

The words above were recently shared with me via text by someone who has this raven print “Izar” in his life.

Alchemy through art.

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