Dreamtime and Xylophones in the Park

Yesterday, JB and I walked along the Colorado River, towering red rock on one side and the river flowing languidly alongside us on the other.  The blue sky and warming sun made the cool day a bit easier to walk through. As we walked by a pair of caves in the red rock, now sporting matching steel doors, JB told me about a woman who had lived in one of them a few years ago. They evicted her and created massive locked doors at the cave's entrance. It's interesting, the choices people make and the things they do to get by in this old world. I would love to know more about her, her life, what created the situation that brought her to her home in the cave.

Others live or have lived in caves in the area. A couple of years ago I read of a young man who lived in one farther up a hiking trail we had been on. Unbeknownst to me at the time, our hike stopped just short of his place in the hillside. The news story I read stated that he had made the choice, preferring it to all other options. According to the story, he did have other, more comfortable options. I wonder if he still does. Prefer it.

Farther on, we walked by a rock face where someone had scratched "dreamtime" on the rock. I've always liked that word. It originates with indigenous Australians, whose spirituality is not unlike indigenous tribes of the American Southwest, their beliefs dovetailing in many respects. I found the information on wikipedia very interesting and synonymous with much of my own spirituality: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dreamtime

In the early afternoon, we climbed up to a spot high above the river and sat on a small rock ledge, had lunch and a good conversation. There's something about being outdoors, spending time away from the constructs of our culture, that lends itself to talks about the myriad possibilities in life. It had all the elements of a beautiful day.

Yeah, that's me, among the rock and sky.

When we got back to town, we stopped at a small park which sits down in a hollow along a creek. We heard the sound of a xylophone, but were immersed in conversation once again and so I didn't immediately realize what was almost right under our noses. In a corner of the park were numerous xylophones and a young man was playing them beautifully.

I didn't want to disturb him, so we waited. After awhile we wandered over for a closer look. I was absolutely giddy with what I found. Several different xylophones, as well as other percussion instruments, all made of different materials, and all with "hammers" for playing. I visited with the young man while he showed me all the various instruments and their sounds, including those that had a few dull spots to be aware of. He said he comes by every day to play them. What a magical place it is, and how cool that this young man has made it part of his day, his life.

 

After he went on his way, I tried my hand at making a little music. It's these dream-like days that help me to more fully understand our own dreamtime, the origins of creation, and how Life leads us into one life-affirming moment of beauty after another.

My time in Moab is drawing to a close. I've stayed longer than originally intended. I am grateful to JB for his hospitality and his companionship. Tomorrow morning, on to New Mexico.

Calling Each Other Into Being

I spent the day with Wendell Berry, essayist, poet, activist and Kentucky farmer. No, not in the flesh, but with his words and his love for the land. Why?  Well, he's been crossing my mind now and again, his way of looking at life, his way of being in it. It's something I strive for, wish to emulate, on many different levels. And, as is so often the case, Life has a way of leading me right where I need to be. This time it was a bookstore.

One of my favorites is here in Moab, called Back of Beyond. It carries a thoughtful selection of books, both new and used. I stop in whenever I visit and always find something interesting, something that revitalizes and sustains me. Yesterday, I thought I went there to look for a book a friend had recommended,  How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci, by Michael Gelb. I didn't find it. I found something else. It was quietly calling my name from the slim, divine stacks of the poetry section.

It was a little book of poems by Wendell Berry called, The Wheel. I opened it to a couple of lines that grabbed me by the lapels of my heart and wouldn't let go. I knew I had to have it. Though published in 1982, the printed price was suspiciously low and so I took it to the register to ask her about it. She showed me, in pencil on the inside cover, the actual price. And why.  On the title page, under his name, was his personal signature. A signed copy. Needless to say, it came home with me.

Today, I spent some time with it, savoring certain lines, reminding myself why I love the land, its inherent beauty and goodness, the simplicity of life it offers, and why loving the land is really no different than loving a spouse, a parent, a child, a sibling, or a dear friend. It offers fine companionship, open and honest communication, and a sense of place that sometimes seems hard to come by in a world of 7 billion people.

As we move in, around, and through each others lives, the land gives shape and form, provides contentment,  "in the sweet enclosure of the song."

The Wheel
For Robert Penn Warren

At the first strokes of the fiddle bow
the dancers rise from their seats.
The dance begins to shape itself
in the crowd, as couples join,
and couples join couples, their movement
together lightening their feet.
They move in the ancient circle
of the dance. The dance and the song
call each other into being. Soon
they are one - rapt in a single
rapture, so that even the night
has its clarity, and time
is the wheel that brings it round.

In this rapture the dead return.
Sorrow is gone from them.
They are light. They step
into the steps of the living
and turn with them in the dance
in the sweet enclosure
of the song, and timeless
is the wheel that brings it round.

~ Wendell Berry

Ancient Art Galleries

Another road runs alongside the Colorado, just outside Moab, referred to as Kane Creek Road, It, too, has several petroglyph panels along it. Yesterday, the weather was a tad gloomy, so we revisited them. Up above the road, along a rock ledge, is the Moab mammoth, along with a few other images carved in stone. Whether these are messages left by travelers or the long ago local citizenry sharing their stories, writing in their journals, we will never know, but rock art it is, and in the finest gallery in the world, Mother Nature.

Dig that crazy necklace....







The photographs are mine.

Another Adventure Under Our Belts

There's a road that meanders up above Moab to an area known as Sand Flats. It continues beyond that into some fairly rugged country, designed more for mountain bikers and bullet-proof twenty-somethings. You know, that age when you feel a sense of invincibility and usually can have a lifestyle that promulgates it? That's not my age. Albeit, I have been in some fine canyons in the last twenty years and still have a pretty adventuresome spirit, along with a desire to get outside my comfort zone and experience life at a level that seems a bit more challenging.  A bit. I do not, however, like to be foolish, and although pretty good at conquering my fears, I've never been too crazy about being afraid for any length of time.

Yesterday was cool, the low 30's, but quite nice for hiking at this altitude and under a clear blue sky. We decided to do some walking on Sand Flats. Sand Flats is a misnomer. It's really a series of rocky hills and this time of year one side of those hills is covered in a few inches of snow. Speaking of snow, since I arrived I've noticed that the snow consists of a much larger than normal crystalline structure -  and it's everywhere, even up in Arches a few days ago, where I first noticed it. It's really quite beautiful. I almost feel guilty walking across it, breaking down the crystals.

We parked the car and headed into the area, which starts with a marked trail. For those who prefer that. We tend to veer off the trail at the first opportunity.

After leaving the trail, and walking for about half an hour, mostly up and down red rock, but occasionally through snow, we decided to take a break. On the next hill over. The problem with that plan is that a fairly steep snow-covered slope lay in front of us. JB is an intrepid hiker and, although never foolish, often a bit more fearless than I. He went down first with small, careful steps and declared it  "a piece of cake."  I took his "piece of cake" with a grain of salt, but decided I need to let go of my fear and be willing to have an adventure. He came back up and helped me down small step by small step. The softness of the snow under the crystals helped with getting our footing. Hang onto that thought. It's key.

When we got off the slope, (no, that is not the slope, but a previous, easier one. No time for pictures when facing imminent death. But, I digress), the rest was easy going, down along a small stream of frozen water and back up onto a knoll of red rock, the perfect place for a break. As usual, we stayed a little longer than we'd planned, talking about pretty much everything - politics, geology, spirituality, flaws in materia medica, the meaning of life. Stuff like that. JB mentioned the new movie coming out about the young man who had to cut off his own arm after it got lodged in the rocks, while hiking here in Utah. He had listened to an interview on NPR, where the young man had described in pretty harrowing detail his awful predicament. It would not have been a discussion for later in our day.

We took pictures, mostly of clouds that were starting to form, creating quite dramatic scenery right over our heads.

When we decided to start heading back, we thought at first it would be nice to find another route, so as not to traverse the same area, see what we could see. We had a couple of hours of daylight left and plenty of time. Then, we thought better of it and decided to head back on the same path to avoid possible problems. We picked up our trail and followed our footprints coming in, heading back up to the snow covered slope we'd come down an hour or so earlier.

It's always been harder for me going up than coming down, vertigo being a factor. But this time held another factor - the cooling of the day. The gathering clouds and the dip in temperature had changed the snow. It was now icy under those beautiful crystals. Slippery slope may well have been coined in that spot, many years ago. It was a no-can-do for me, that much was certain. JB, having come up behind me, and a more seasoned hiker, wasn't completely convinced until he, too, made an attempt, which culminated in him slipping down, with his fingertips out like claws grasping for a fingerhold of any kind to stop the slide. Though sympathetic, I withheld my laughter, for the time being.

As with our usual gambit when confronted with a "situation," we started the good-natured blame game. He usually begins with something like, "Well, Ollie, here's another fine mess you've gotten us into."  I retort with something equally clever, that I can't recall right now, that may or may not have been peppered with colorful language. Then, we do a minute or so of verbal tussling before getting down to the business of finding a solution. It's traditional.

While I fought back the bit of fear trying to find an entrance, we decided the best course would be to simply head for the direction of the road, which we knew ran alongside us, just not too sure how far away. It was do-able before dark. That was the important bit of information we gathered there. So, off we went, into the wild blue yonder, exchanging clever repartee about our predicament and tales of other adventures we have known. Then we fell into a peaceful silence, one foot in front of the other, stopping to do a quick survey every few minutes to make certain we were still on course. About an hour later, we could see a break in the terrain and a small section of the road down below, about twenty minutes away. Quiet Hallelujahs all around. 

We got to the road with our dignity and senses of humor still intact. I wished for chocolate. JB carries a fairly well-stocked backpack, so I thought it not outside the realm of possibility. But, alas and alack, he declared us to be in a chocolate dead zone. I lamented and asked him why he wasn't manifesting some as we walked. He, being a very practical kind of guy, and manifest not being a word he would normally use, uncharacteristically said,  "Dark chocolate."  I retorted with,  "At this point, any chocolate would do."  He said we needed to be on the same page if we hope to manifest something, so I agreed, dark chocolate it would be. Then we kept walking.  A little further down the road and around the next bend, we saw the parking lot below, with JB's truck waiting patiently for us.

After arriving in the parking lot, and while I laughed hysterically about his fingers grasping for anything in his slide into recognition on the snowy slope (he being good-natured and tolerant), JB did his usual going through his backpack, reorganizing it. It's this thing he does. He's a Virgo. After further and deeper digging, he sat something down on the tailgate of the truck next to me.

Dark chocolate.

It had been at the bottom of his bag, and none the worse for wear. I was not about to complain about the condition it was in. It was chocolate. And it was edible. And another adventure was under our belts.

The opening photo, taken at the top of Sand Flats, is Abyss Canyon, a branch of Negro Bill Canyon. That's an improvement on its former appellation, of many years ago. JB and I hiked it together on a previous trip.

A Winter Afternoon Along the Colorado River

One of the things I'm most enjoying about being back in Moab is seeing the landscape with fresh eyes. I've been here many times through the years and taken many photos, but this trip is making everything feel brand new. I've never been here when it was this chilly and with this much snow on the ground, but, as I said, I didn't come for the weather, I came for a change of scenery and perspective. And that I'm getting.

 

Yesterday, JB and I drove down Potash Road, which runs just outside Moab. On one side is the Colorado River and on the other are walls of red rock where large sections are covered in a patina that has a purplish cast to it. It's on this patina that the Anasazi and Fremont Indians created petroglyphs, what we sometimes refer to as rock art. We can only guess as to their motive for creating these images on rock, but it seems the impulse to create art is essential to our nature. Not too far down the road is Canyonlands National Park, which has a large section of rock art referred to as Newspaper Rock. I took photos of it many years ago and perhaps will again this trip. It's a section of rock wall covered with a vast number of images, symbols and such, seeming to depict life as they knew it, perhaps even commemorating events of their times.

Those we saw yesterday are fewer, but no less intriguing. When I see these, I think of the phrase, The Family of Man. We live in far different times now, but inside we are still the same. 

We did a short hike in the afternoon, going up a small canyon, only about a half mile or so. The pool of water at the end of the trail was frozen, but the sky was blue and the sun warmed us as we sat on the rock ledge above. We talked of an early spring camping trip, many years ago. We were somewhere in southern New Mexico, sitting beside a campfire along the Rio Grande. Despite the fire in front of us, and the distant light of a few million stars over our heads, we were colder than we'd ever been. And there had been some cold nights. One night up at Natural Bridges, here in Utah, was a very close second. It was the middle of May, but in the high desert the nights can get cold long after the days start heading into summer.

Yesterday, I rested my hiking bag on a rock, laid down on my back on the smooth red rock and basked in the warm glow of the sunlight on my face. It was a perfect winter afternoon.

Later, on the drive home, with JB at the wheel, the car bending into curve after gentle curve along the Colorado River, I turned my head toward the window, leaned back, closed my eyes, and felt the sun sparkling off my face. And I thought:  it really doesn't get any better than this.





These are my own photos and will continue to be, unless noted.

Morning in Moab

The Eagle has landed, or in this case, the Nissan. I arrived in Moab yesterday afternoon. The weather is a bit cold, but I don't mind. It wasn't the weather I came for, nor why I decided to hit the road. It's the fresh perspective that seems to be pervading my thoughts, my life, and it feels good. Snow-capped red rock against blue sky is a pretty fine thing to wake up to.

Two days ago, while riding on the shoulders of the Rocky Mountains, I became aware of a greater strength inside me, as though I was drawing from their strength. As I emerged from the Eisenhower Tunnel, an ever-so-slightly new way of looking at life also emerged and quietly fell into step beside me. Later, while driving out of the Rockies through Glenwood Canyon, gliding along, mile after mile, curve after curve, beauty in my wake and around every corner, I became even more aware of this strength quietly moving around and through me, guiding my every move.

I was reminded of a previous trip, one I took with my sister, Jane, going out west together in the early spring of '95. We were aware that weather patterns in the mountains can be unpredictable, but we had our sights set on Pagosa Springs. So, with some trepidation and the promise of hot springs waiting on the other side, we headed up Wolf Creek Pass in the early afternoon. Jane was driving. I was navigating. Half way up the pass the snow started. By the time we got to the top it was coming down pretty good and darkness was falling fast. We had no recourse, but to keep going.

While Jane drove, I kept my eyes on the side of the road, warning her if we strayed too close to the edge. We both knew fear was starting to gain a toehold in our thinking and we found ourselves bolstering each other with false merriment over our unexpected adventure. As we headed down the pass, heavy snow was filling up the night with large, mesmerizing flakes. I think we were both quietly praying for some form of salvation there on Wolf Creek Pass.

It arrived in the form of a semi-truck, just ahead of us in the road. We were able to follow him as he blazed a trail through that snowy night, his tail lights guiding us down, every long mile of the way. By the time we finally landed in Pagosa Springs, fear had given way to gratitude and a gigantic sense of relief filled the car. Boy, did those hot springs feel good, the San Juan River running next to them, the snow lying gently along its banks.

So, here I am. Morning in Moab. A bowl of Greek yogurt with honey and raspberries for a belated breakfast, the La Sal Mountains standing sentry right outside the door. It's good to be back at my playground in the west.



I'll be sharing my own photos soon. In the meantime, another photo courtesy of JB, here in red rock country, in slightly warmer times.

Song of the Open Road Redux

Henceforth I ask not for good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing.
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road....


I've set my sails for western shores.  A few mornings ago, I was coming back into the house after putting bird seed out on the feeder, and as my hand reached for the door knob I knew: it was time to go.

I used to feel apologetic for being so susceptible to the song of the open road, but I have come to accept the drifter in me and have not only come to terms with her, but I feel very much at peace with her. It's who I've always been for as long as I can remember. "I yam what I yam," as Popeye would say, and I yam someone who loves the open road; it's a natural fit. It knows when I'm ready and leaves a trail for me to follow. We've been friends for a very long time.

Being on the road gives me an opportunity to let everything fall away as the miles stretch out before me, that ribbon of road singing under my wheels. I find my energy falling into a quieter movement and a greater awareness follows. It has a way of bringing things into clear focus. It clarifies, cleanses and purifies (damn face products have stolen all the good words) and yes, it even heals. As long as I can get behind the wheel I will probably be moving between Point A and Point B. Point A being Minnesota and Point B being somewhere else, most likely out west. I love the West and all it seems to represent. I Know it is my spiritual home. But, Minnesota is the land of my roots and having a piece of land there again gives me a true sense of place: a place to call my own, a place to return to at the end of the day, even when that day turns into a string of days spent under the blue New Mexico sky, or in the red-rock canyons of Utah. I wouldn't want it any other way.

I spent last night somewhere along I-90 in South Dakota. Mitchell. Corn Palace Country. I was there with Coleman once, en route to a camping trip in the Black Hills. It's an interesting place. I remember thinking it would be, uh, corny, but liking it more than I thought I would. Quite an accomplishment actually. But, today was a day of open prairie, broken only by the occasional rolling hills. Atop a solitary hill, lightly dusted with new snow, a small herd of pronghorn antelope stood silent, heads held high against a backdrop of blue sky, so quintessentially western.

As I'm driving, I have a strange sensation, as though every cell in my body is being replaced - out with the old, in with the new - with road tunes for company. And good company it is - "Guitar George, he knows all the chords."  By tomorrow afternoon, I'll be in Moab, Utah. I can't wait to feel my feet firmly planted on red rock - Arches in the evening light. But, tonight I sleep nestled up against the Rockies, at the edge of this mountain village, here on the western slope.

You road I enter upon and look around! I believe you are not all that is here;
I believe that much unseen is also here.

~ Walt Whitman,  "Song of the Open Road" 

Photos taken somewhere outside of Moab, courtesy of my long-time friend and hiking pal, JB.

Song lyrics are courtesy of Dire Straits

I Want to Be an Astronaut When I Grow Up

This is not the first time I've revealed my love for all things space-y, so I might as well say it myself, having been accused of being one:  I will forever be a space cadet. In third grade, I spent a good deal of time deep in a comic book, learning all about training to be an astronaut. Mrs. Vincent, my third-grade teacher, also fed my obsession via a capsule of information where we learned about John Glenn, what astronauts eat in space, what the Big Plans were, etc. I ate it up and begged for more: 'More space, please.'  I still can't get enough.

As my personal exploration of space, via the computer now (supplemented with lots of standing under the night sky and looking up in wonder), takes me deeper into space, I feel that my exploration of spirituality dovetails with it, in fact they seem to be interchangeable in many ways.  This is a subject I have written about before and will undoubtedly write about again, but today I want to share with you a link that my son, Coleman, sent to me this morning. These are photographs taken by Col. Douglas Wheelock, during his command of the International Space Station. Besides being an astronaut, he's one world-class photographer. And I do mean world-class. His photographs are astonishingly beautiful. His photograph above looks like something out of  "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," one of my top ten favorite movies of all time. I would also venture to say he is one fine metaphysical writer. His captions are pure poetry. This is nature writing at its finest.

I may be prejudiced by my own love of space, but I hope you will click on the link below and will enjoy them as much as I did. Then, I urge you to click on the link to his biographical data in the introduction to them (an amazing look at what dedication to your chosen field can do) and to his twitter account. His full captions enhance the images with poetic descriptions of the incredible views he enjoyed from space.

This is art, this is science, this is spirituality, and it sets my heart on fire.

http://triggerpit.com/2010/11/22/incredible-pics-nasa-astronaut-wheelock/

Love: A Lone Crow and Wild Turkeys

During the past three weeks I have been giving considerable thought to the healing power of Love. Several weeks ago I bought a book many of you might be familiar with. It's titled, quite simply, The Power. It's a companion book to The Secret, the secret being not so secret, as it is about Source and the infinite supply we all have, without measure, of all that we need.  The Power is dedicated to the subject of Love, in all its manifestations, and how it meets our every need. Love, being divine Love, as expressed in and through us, has given me much food for thought.

I have not always followed my own principles regarding the expression of Love. I have fallen far short at times. I decided to examine my own shortcomings through a bit of retrospection and introspection, and to make a practice of doing better, to practice what I preach more consistently. During this brief hiatus, I've been having fun in my own backyard. And more than fun, it has been illuminating.

While on a walk yesterday, under a blue-blue sky and with fresh snow under my feet (I love how the blue sky is reflected in the snow), I opened my thought to how I might express love without hesitation and exception. I had to start with myself, the only place anything ever truly starts. I opened my thought and my mouth, speaking out loud how much I love my Life, my Perfect Self, the Self that God, divine Love knows, without condition or judgment. Then I went on to express out loud my love for all my friends, including any that appear to be lost to the past; I spoke of my love for my family, every member, without exception. I continued along these lines as I walked. As I did so, a lone crow sailed across the road, just above the treetops in front of me. I spoke to it, saying hello and thanking it for the gift of its presence. It flew a short distance, then banked to the right, flying back to me, almost appearing to pause in greeting as it approached me, completing a circle as it flew. It did this one more time, flying a short distance, then banking to the right, briefly hovering before completing another circle overhead, then sailing on, across that deep blue ocean of sky.

If you have been reading my writings for any time, you have probably noticed that I believe we receive signs everywhere, once we become alert to them. Signs from nature are among my favorites. This certainly seems to be a nice affirmation for the direction my thoughts have taken.

I received another nice "sign" this morning. I had just sent an email to someone expressing my thoughts about the healing power of love, when I walked down the hall and into the kitchen. There, under the bird feeder, were four wild turkeys. They are probably the same turkeys that visited me this past summer. I took a photo of them from inside, but could not resist the desire to photograph them outside. I walked around the corner of the house and managed to snap off a few photos as they moved back toward the little patch of woods they had taken refuge in this summer. I cannot explain it, but those turkeys felt like Love itself to me. Another gift of Love's ever-presence, expressed through nature.

Someday when men have conquered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we will harness for God the energies of love, and then, for a second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire.

~ Pierre Teilhard de Chardin



The photographs are mine.

To the Playground

For the past several days, I've been getting the nudge to take a break from blogging. I feel the need to step away. Today, the sun is shining brilliantly, not a cloud in sight, and it seems to be mirroring my decision back to me. I am very grateful that I followed through on my desire to share the beautiful art of Katherine Bowling before doing so. What a perfect place to take a break. It might mean a few days, but my sense is it will be somewhat longer. I will be back, I'm quite certain, but now calls for something else. That something else? I think I've forgotten how to have fun. So, I'm going to change that. I don't know what that means yet, but I aim to find out. I'll let you know.

Katherine Bowling: The Subject is Grace

Once in awhile I come across a new artist, someone I have never seen nor heard of before, and they stop me in my tracks. Their paintings call up inexplicable emotion and I can't shake it. Such is the case with Katherine Bowling, whose work I saw in a magazine this fall. Here I am, three months later, and I'm still talking about it.

The wonderful thing about art is, that each person gets to bring their own particular set of emotions to it, drinking it in and walking away, taking with them what they will.

When I worked in the gallery, my favorite conversations with clients were around why people respond as they do to certain paintings. Whether it's a realistic scene, which brings up memories of a place we've been, something we've seen and the emotions associated with those memories, or more abstract work, it always comes down to emotions. We each respond with our own unique way of viewing the world, our own perceptions. And so I cannot say this will strike you as it did me. This is just me. For whatever reason, it's not going away.

Her titles are singular and carry with them their own grace notes, as in this one, simply titled, View:

They have an ethereal quality, perhaps reminding us of a dream we once had that sometimes returns, unbidden, called up by circumstance.

Yes, someplace we've been, but can't quite recall....

She spends part of each year in a 19th century farmhouse atop the Catskill Mountains, surrounded by woods and fields, painting what she refers to as "ordinary stuff."  Using oils, she paints in somewhat of a fresco style, layering vinyl spackle on wood, not unlike plaster, then beginning with a base coat of bright color, which creates in her paintings that sense of light emanating from within. She often turns the painting around, letting the drips form aspects of the work. It's as though Impressionism wed Abstraction and out of it something new was born, something wonderful, something extraordinary.

She notes the early work of photographer Edward Steichen as an influence. I have always loved his photographs. Perhaps that's one element that helps explain why I'm drawn to her work. Considered the most expensive photograph in the world, taken by Steichen on Long Island in 1904, the photograph below recently sold at auction for $2.9. That's million.

 

I had a devil of a time trying to pick which pieces I'd share with you. Actually, it was quite heavenly. Emotions, of course, ruled the day, and my decisions. Here are some more that sang to me. Sirens on the rocks, I'm telling you. And I gladly surrender.

 

I sent an email to Katherine Bowling, requesting permission to showcase her work in my blog, and received a generous response in return granting me permission to use whatever I like, along with  a nice comment on my blog. I am thrilled!  Such a lovely way to start my morning. Her most recent show, "Moments of Grace," is at the DC Moore Gallery in New York City.

I encourage you to click on each and view them somewhat larger. The titles are included there, as well. I can imagine how wonderful they must be in person.