My creative path has never been linear—it’s more of a spiral, looping inward and outward, echoing the rhythms of nature and the cycles of healing. There have been times when I’ve felt completely lost, untethered from my own sense of self. In those moments, returning to my creativity felt like returning to breath. Even when words failed me, I could make a mark. I could meet what was there.
There’s something profoundly intimate about approaching a blank surface—not to fix or control, but to listen. My hands often know more than my mind. They remember softness. They remember rhythm.
They remember that nothing needs to be perfect to be sacred.
I don’t create to escape life—I create to meet it more fully. The grief, the awe, the silence, the chaos—it all has a place. And through that presence, something alchemical unfolds.
The painting become a reflection, a prayer, a way of witnessing the unseen.
Back in 1998, I spent time with the Oglala Lakota Sioux Medicine Men in Montana. The sacred sweat lodge ceremonies left an imprint on my soul—one that still guides my creative and spiritual path. There was something ancient and humbling about sitting in the darkness, wrapped in steam and prayer, listening to the heartbeat of the drum and the earth.
In that space, I learned that healing doesn’t always speak in words—it speaks in symbols, sensation, breath, and presence. It was a return to the body, to the land, and to spirit all at once.
That experience planted seeds of reverence in me—seeds that continue to grow through every painting, those I work with and every silence I hold in my studio. It deepened my understanding that art, like ceremony, can be a portal: a way to remember who we are beneath the noise, to touch something eternal, and to honour the unseen.
My creative process has become its own kind of ritual—a sacred offering rooted in listening, surrender, and devotion.
Over the years, my work has continued to evolve, shaped by loss, love and Buddhist philosophy, devotional teachings, and the quiet holiness I find in everyday moments. Whether it's a light across the floor, a cracked stone, or a whispered mantra, I'm drawn to the kind of beauty that asks us to slow down and be with it.
I paint to make space for that kind of stillness—for the extraordinary within the ordinary.