When that in-between feeling kept moving me along...

Openings, longing, and wholeness…

Where spirals ripple outward, overlap, and interact…

How colors appear, alter, emerge, transfer, and transmute…

And then there were more leaves, especially from the river birch tree, as if to say that it was their turn to play.

Things come into existence, stay for a while, then leave again. Leaf art is inherently ephemeral. Maybe that’s what’s so compelling about it. 

It’s the sensation that was familiar, the muscle memory of holding the brush just so between my fingers, of dipping the brush in ink, and the careful touch of black ink to white paper.

Images next to images, being juxtaposed. Expressions next to expressions, having dialogues.

My own chaotic and thundering prints excited me, until I didn't know how to quell these forces of fire and water, of seen and unseen.