Since losing my father this past Thanksgiving, I’ve been leaning more heavily on the quiet practice that has grounded me for decades: journaling. I’ve kept journals and scrapbooks since childhood, but it was reading The Artist’s Way in the ’90s that made writing a consistent part of my creative and emotional life.
These pages are where I process—ideas, emotions, memories, the mundane, the magical. After I finish a piece of art, I often return to what I was writing during its making. In those margins, glimmers emerge. Little phrases. Sensory echoes. Emotions I couldn’t name at the time. And from there, poems begin to form.
Until now, I’ve kept most of these poems to myself. They’ve always felt deeply personal—like offerings only meant for the page. But recently, I was encouraged to begin sharing them, not just as a part of my grieving process, but as an extension of my artistic one.
So here goes.
I’ll be sharing select poems in the weeks ahead—tender words that trace the undercurrents of loss, memory, and healing. They live between fiber and feeling, just like my art.
