She is both earth and tide. She gathers what is left behind, what is whole and what is broken; takes it home and makes it bloom.

Every seashell has a story. Hold one up to your ear sometime and let it whisper to you. Well, when I pick up a seashell, I’ll like Ariel the Little Mermaid with human stuff, I can’t help but admire it and want to add it to my collection. But I’m not your traditional beachcomber. (And EVERYTHING I use is NEVER live harvested, sources by reputable dealers or collected by these very hands off the shores of Atlantic Dunes in Delray Beach, Florida. That’s where my inspiration truly bloomed. Became something else. I loved it before, but I had been limited to what I had around me. Which, growing up in landlocked Utah, GO KANAB, wasn’t much.

But in Florida my art ideas took on a life of their own! Going to the beach, seeing for myself the plethora of shells, so small and tiny, to some big ones too, but goodness, those tiny ones! I had never seen them so small! Wow what a cool rose those would create…Or, this weird looking slipper shell put with a few more slipper shells look just like a Plumeria flower! the jagged clam shells made the most natural looking Iris I have ever made! I could cry it was so fun! Abandoned art supplies were strewn about the beach like no one cared! So I collected. And kept. And had began to create.

But life pulled me back to landlocked Utah and I left my beautiful ocean behind…With a few souvenirs of course! Parting is such sweet sorry, it helped ease the pain. Back to good old Kanab, the place of my upbringing.

Sitting there looking at those shells in my cold, basement studio that winter…they began to whisper to me from the ocean inside them. Now, by this time in life, I had racked up a few too many points on the life trauma scale than I would care to talk about right now; I was really going through it. Really. *See art. I have also accumulated quite a few random talents as well, like balloon twisting, swimming as a mermaid, rolling my tongue in four directions, oh wait, that one while being random doesn’t belong on this list; apologies. So I had gotten it in my head that writing a book could be a good idea, and maybe, just maybe a) help me process my trauma, and b) the hope that perhaps through hearing my story I could help others through similar experiences. But words. Words are hard. And words would not come. But there was something else I had studied throughout the years that I just loved and spoke to my heart so intensely: the language of flowers.

When I say language of flowers perhaps you picture Enola Holmes decoding her mother’s secret messages through the flowers she would send her, or perhaps a Victorian suitor sending a potential love match his feelings for her, and she sending a rejection flower in return, never having to speak an actual word.

There were flowers all around me. I had created a whole garden. A mermaid garden, filled with blooms created from the sea. Each, now beaconing to tell me their story. No, beaconing to be used to tell my story. Like little volunteers, they rose inside my head, reminding me of all the meanings flowers can take on. I need to tell my story. I hadn’t been able to until now, for my language skill were not yet fully developed.

My art speaks to my life experiences, to what I see in the world around me, of people and places I call home. My art is helping me heal. Perhaps the messages they contain can help you along your journey, if for no other reason than to not feel alone.

Stay tuned for details about upcoming art showings!! 🧜🏻‍♀️