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I park my car in a no-mans-land between two “NO TRESPASSING” zones and hope the miners and rail workers don’t mind. I’ve been waiting for the heatwave to end, but like a fever that won’t break, these temps are the new normal.

My bike is loaded with water bottles, a bag of smashed tortilla chips and a sleeping pad; the essentials for a single night of feral, salt-sticky-thighed, cowboy camping. Into the hairdryer wind and crunching gravel—I ride. On a silly one-woman quest to find her sunflower field of dreams.

It was almost three years ago, in March, when I first visited this bizarre slice of Great Salt Lake. Just past the landfill, along the gravel mine and active rail lines rests a golden hillside, thick with dried sunflowers stalks— far as the eye can see.

*See video below

As I overlooked this ancient sea-side slope in the grey winter, I imagined how beautiful it must be in the late summer— when the flowers were in full sunshine bloom. I vowed to someday return to this spot, and have been dreaming of it ever since. My secret sunflower garden.

Seasons, like most things during these “unprecedented times” are also becoming less predictable. Yet—despite a snowless winter, flooding monsoons and new heat records for the Salt Lake Valley, the sunflowers are blooming proud along highway on-ramps and sidewalks. Right on time.

So here I am, biking through the heat, chasing an iPhoto location from years ago. Up, up, a loose rock trail, out of breath and sweat stinging my eyes and I’ve finally made it.

But there are no flowers. Not even the dried bones of dead blossoms that spurred this adventure. Just crunchy grass, sharp rocks and the searing sun reflecting off the distant lake. Am I early? Or Late? Or maybe the soil has changed, or those blooms were only meant for one season?

Welp. I’m an idiot. Turns out that simply having an expectation, can let you down. It’s in moments like this where I catch myself screenwriting the story of my life. Adding a clever ending, before the experience actually happens.

Funny thing… In this very moment, a few thousand feet higher in elevation, there are technicolor meadows blooming in the high alpine. A rainbow quilt of fireweed, geranium, lupine and mountain paintbrush is being enjoyed by the masses along paid, paved parking lots. But having already tasted the sweet, well loved Sound of Music-esque scenes of Alta and Deer Valley, I craved something else. Something salty, lonesome and a little bitter. Well, I’m eating it now.

Let it be known, sunflowers are not concerned with an audience or a storyline. They bloom when and where they please—spectators be damned! So I eat an orange and get back on my bike while the western sun glows neon nectarine. And although there were no flowers, there were jackrabbits and the fluffy tails of coyotes weaving through the green greasewood.

In the mosquito darkness I unceremoniously set up my sleeping pad and shovel tuna onto chips with dirty fingers. Solo camping affords me this luxury… To be utterly feral. Completely unwitnessed.

Laying like a gothic bride in my all black sleep sack, I peer through the thin mosquito face mesh, and watch satellites spar with the stars. There are constellations I recognize, and others I’ll never remember. I guess it’s nice to keep some things a mystery. It’s those unknowns that keep me coming back.

I wake in the periwinkle shadows of dawn and savor the cool hush on the horizon. The quiet moments before the flash-bulb brightness of the midday sun exposes the whole truth. Once the edges of a place are fully defined, the magic is gone.

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Upcoming Events:

8/7—8/9 The Kimball Arts Festival!!

Friday, August 7th, 5:00pm – 9:00pm
Saturday, August 8th, 10:00am – 8:00pm
Sunday, August 9th, 10:00am – 6:00pm

See you at Booth C302 in front of the Patagonia store :)

8/22 SLC Farmers Market, 8am - 2pm

8/29 SLC Farmers Market, 8am - 2pm

9/1 Abstract Landscapes Watercolor at TF Brewing 6-8pm, Sign Up!

Can’t Get Enough…

— Of Dolly Parton’s 80s glam and old timey charm.

—Of this book!

—Of this podcast

Where to even begin?! The Rise and Fall of Capitalism? —“The Men Are Not All Right”...Right? —How to Give Birth in America Part 2? Adding relatable hilarity, and feminist flare to the this bizarre cultural moment…

Uniquely Western:

Experiences that make “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” theme start playing in my head.

Opening a cattle gate on a dirt road.

A pile of tumbleweeds

“It’s a dry heat”

The smell of creosote and sage

A plume of dust behind the car

Virga

A cold beverage in a sweat-less glass

Crusty boogers

Fire season

Magpie caws

Cold rushing rivers

Eternally chapped lips

Touching snow in the summer

Glowing juniper berries in red dirt

Crunching footsteps

“Your Public Lands.”

May the imagined gardens in our hearts forever bloom, and may you always keep your head in the clouds.

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As a child, summer seemed to last forever. The endless blur of flip-flop bike rides, public pool splashes, catching crawfish beneath slimy stones and campfire smoke— now evaporates quicker than wet footprints on a sunny dock.

July—the month of my birth, always hits me like an ultimatum. It is a point of no return, both in my age and in the halcyon days of summer. This month, I’ve witnessed the snow melt entirely from the mountains I see from my porch, and it’s only getting hotter. With that dissolving, a familiar summertime urgency rises in my heart.

Locally—

The frenetic impulse to go and do *NOW* before this sweet moment dries up too. The insatiable need to climb the mountains before the air is thick with wildfire smoke. To bask in the blooming alpine before the yellow arnica crisps from too many sunny days. The urgency to get to the trailhead before it fills by 8am and the wanting to summit before midday heat bleaches the mountains in a pallid haze.

Before that one secret swimming spot is geotagged and loved to death by influencers and tourists alike. Before every parking lot becomes paid, and these wild places are changed forever. The undeniable gravity of summer makes me start to spiral as the western sun blares me awake every morning like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

Globally—

I cannot help feeling the compulsion to do something— anything, before it’s too late. Before Great Salt Lake dries, and we are left with the toxic dust bowl. Before water wars begin in the mountain west, and our ability to course correct for climate change is irreversible. Before all public lands sold to the highest bidder. Before the United States implodes or WW3 breaks out.

Internally—

The manic desire to go out dancing and feel the joy of twerking in the front row after one too many beers— because my body is solely mine and I am nobody’s mother. Before my knees sound like Rice Krispies, and my skin creases with a permanent smile. Before my parents can’t physically hike alongside me or have the energy to travel to the places they saved for retirement. Before my little nieces and nephews no longer run to greet me with a jumping hug.

So much about this moment feels painfully irreversible.

The intense seasonal fragility reminds me of my own lifecycle. That this time of abundance will not last. Truth be told, I feel like I’m in my own personal summer. After years of fumbling in the weeds and being blown by the wind, I’m finally rooted and full-color blooming like a roadside Indian paintbrush. I turned 34 this month and feel my toes dangling off the edge of era. Too young to be the leader of the free world, yet one year away from having any potential pregnancy be “geriatric,” is a fabulous metaphor for being a woman. Somehow we are always not enough, and too much in all life’s phases.

My partner and I joke that we are now of the age where the headline of our newsworthy death would simply say, “Man/Woman dies,” instead of something like —“Young man/woman tragically taken too soon.” The song Only the Good Die Young no longer applies. We are full-on adults, whether we feel like it or not.

Truth be told, I’m still dreaming of what I want to be when I grow up. Constantly envisioning wildly different futures—like the summer blockbuster trailers at the movie theatre. One version—a bond-style action film, me as a Laura Croft type, exploring the world, deepening my internal landscape and chasing every desire. Scuba diving, tantra or archaeology? The other film, a Hallmark channel kind, with tiny shoes at the “Welcome” doormat, and me folding an endless pile of laundry with bags under my smiling eyes. Both feel foreign. Both terrify me.

Juxtaposing myself against friends doesn’t help either. Some are on their second child, others are blissfully single with plans to go back to school or to live abroad. I’m somewhere in the liminal in-between. Unsure of my choices and chances in this one— singular lifetime. We can bet on the lupine blooming each summer, yet we only bloom once? It’s just not fair.

I think some people need children to access their youth… In lives dictated by routine, financial stability or a job with benefits, I can see how it’d be appealing to make some Mini Me’s. I truly think some people need kids to remember how to play, paint or use their imagination. But truth be told, that is what I do all day. Why should I have to come in from recess for some other kid to have all the fun? It’s the end of summer and I’m slowly walking to the end of the diving board— not knowing if water or cement lay below.

*Not to mention the additional layers of socioeconomics, healthcare (lack thereof), cost of childcare, possible environmental collapse, family being thousands of miles away — blah, blah, blah.

But when I stop spiraling into future Anna’s problems, and peer backward instead, I’m at peace. If I were to suddenly die in a car crash, my ghost would meander the mountains with no aching regrets, or “What if’s.” These 30-some years have been a technicolor dream and I could not want for more. All credit due to my incredible parents, true-blue friends and the open lands of the West.

At every point in this life, I thought I knew it all. Until I eventually looked back and realized I was a fucking idiot. Maybe I’ll look back at this phase too and realize that my projections were wildly off. I guess life could always get better? New flowers may be just under the dirt, waiting to bloom.

Upcoming Events:

7/25 Downtown SLC Farmers Market, Pioneer Park (YES, even with the construction!) 8am-2pm.

7/28 Watercolor Class @ TF Brewing, Alta Wildflowers Night! 6-8pm.

8/7-8/9 Kimball Arts Festival , Main Street Park City, UT. Come visit me at booth C302 right in front of the Patagonia store ;)

8/16 Salt Lake Farmers Market, Pioneer Park, SLC, UT.

**Mention that you subscribe to this Substack at any of my in-person events this summer, and you get 20% off all prints!

Summer Core

Driving barefoot with the windows down

Eating dinner under a 9pm sunset

Reading (aka napping) by a pool

The smell of boat exhaust

Seatbelt burns

Grasshopper clicks

Waking to the sound of a lawnmower

Watermelon juice dripping all the way down your elbow

This Song

At the start of every summer movie, a corny radio voice saying “Hey (any American city) its gunna be a hoooot one!!”

The Final Word: Beautiful and relatable expressions from other languages

Weltschmerz

Have you ever read the news and upon seeing so many negative headlines, you felt a sense of doom and sadness for the world? In Germany, we have a word for this feeling: Weltschmerz. Consisting of the words Welt (world) and Schmerz (pain), the feeling describes exactly that — a pain you feel for the state of the world.

Saudade
A Portuguese word that signifies a deep, melancholic longing for something or someone absent, often with the knowledge that it may never return.

Tartle (Scotland) The act of hesitating while introducing someone because you've forgotten their name.

Kilig (Phillipines) The feeling of butterflies in your stomach, usually when something romantic takes place.

Waldeinsamkeit (Germany) Wald means forest, and einsamkeit means loneliness or solitude. It hints at both the feeling of being alone in the woods and also at a peaceful oneness with nature.

Utepils is a Norwegian word that literally translates to "outdoor lager." It is common within Scandinavian culture, and used among beer drinkers worldwide. Utepils has taken on several different interpretations throughout the generations. It typically refers to the act of sitting outside on a sunny day enjoying a beer. It may also refer to the first beer you drink outside on a warm, sunny day, and is the (great) name of a brewing company.

Jijivisha ( जिजीविषा ) The Hindi word refers to the strong, eternal desire to live and to continue living. It is usually used to talk about people who absolutely love life. It suggests intense emotions and the strong desire to live and thrive.

Stay cool hottie… And keep your head in the clouds.

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June…My favorite month. When snow and flowers can cover the same mountain. When the green embrace of summer is still fragrant and hopeful and the sun (against my will) keeps rising earlier and earlier. I’d typically miss the morning alpenglow, but a small, unbelievably soft tuxedo cat named Boots has been waking me up at 5:30 a.m. so she can drink from her preferred bathroom sink.

I could pretend this annoys me, but in all honesty, having two squishy, purring buddies who depend on me is lovely. Oh— I have two cats now by the way.

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Meet Pip and Boots.

Having these two around has gently filled the empty in-between space that accumulates in a solitary day spent working from home.

Each morning I am booped awake with a paw and ushered to the food bowl and bathroom sink. Little rituals now hold meaning. Days before were an amorphous blur of, “What shall I do today?” And they still are, but now are punctuated with purrs and laughter. My afternoons of blasting 130 BPM EDM or sad girl folk, are now quieter—Because there are two little loafs sleeping by my feet.

Peacefully sharing space feels good. It softens the dread and chips away at my puritan work ethic. There are a few tradeoffs. I must carefully drag my feet as to not to accidentally step on the tail of my little shadows that follow me from room to room. I’ve also learned to keep my oil paint palette out of reach, after Pip took a walk across the wet paint and then the carpet.

At night, I am ushered to bed as they prowl the small A-frame, protecting us from from moths and mice (the mouse count is now at 6). It’s shocking how many times a day I marvel at them… Their mushy toe beans dream-twitching in the sun, or their galaxy green eyes, laser focused on the goldfinches at the window. I am measurably less productive with them around— and this a good thing. Screw optimization and spend more time petting cats.

For so long I convinced myself that I didn’t have the space or time for pets (this is still very true for dogs) but the self-sufficient sweetness of two kitties is proving the love I’ve always had to give.

While recently admiring the awe-inspiring walls of Paria Canyon, (four days deep into a backpacking trip mind you), one thought was recurring. “This is beautiful. And I love my cats.”

Upcoming Events:

THIS WEEK! Utah Arts Festival :

Thursday, June 18, 5pm to 10pm

Fri-Sun, June 19-21, Noon to 10pm.

Come visit me at booth #116! Come for the art, stay for the breakdancing and live music. Shaky Graves and Rubblebucket are playing!!

6/19 Meet Me in the Thicket.

Solo Show from Caro Nilssen, at Red Flower Studios SLC, 7-10pm.

7/11 SLC Farmers Market, 8am - 2pm

7/25 SLC Farmers Market, 8am - 2pm

7/28 Wasatch Watercolor at TF Brewing

Watercolor pairs perfectly with a pineapple gose in my opinions! Don’t miss *Alta Wildflowers Night* !

7/31 Solo Show at Gaia on Main

Join me for a single night show on Main Street Park City! More details to come.

SOUP FOR BRAINS?!

Having trouble focusing? Me too! Here are some tasty marshmallow bits that have been floating around the Lucky Charms of my brain.

Backyard bliss: Weeding?

I have now officially become my parents who spent every summer of my childhood knee deep in the hillside myrtle, pulling weeds. This past week, I removed ten large black garbage bags full of invasive plants from my yard, and it was awesome! While fighting the man (aka Houndstongue and scotch thistle) I witnessed so many small magics in my yard… A fledgling dark eyed junco flitting from stick to stick, mating iridescent beetles, and warring kamakaze hummingbirds. Insert metaphor about tending to the part of the garden you can touch. Also, pick those noxious weeds now before it’s too late!!

Take my word for it.

Just a few heartwrechingly beautiful terms to add to your lexicon.

Abandoned meander: (or meander cutoff) is a former sweeping curve in a river that has been disconnected from the main flow, typically when the river breaches the "neck" of the bend to create a shorter, more direct channel. *Like a river’s forgotton footprint.

Sonder: The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own. *This is why I could never live in NYC… Too many storylines to fathom!

Zenosyne: The sense that time keeps speeding up. *Especially felt for me in the summertime!

Looksmaxxing?! Welcome to the party boys!

No-one called it looksmaxing when at 12 years old, I started to shave my whole body.

Nicking myself regularly, even when my mom got me the razor with the wire guard.

Was I “looksmaxxing” when I was hungry from the years of adolescence through college?

Because every health magazine said women needed only 1500 calories a day.

*Bonus points if you can do less.

What about when I’d vomit after eating “too much?”

Was that optimizing my caloric input?

Maybe a man on a podcast can coin the term, “intermittent purging” and it will be trendy, like intermittent fasting.

Or maybe the thousands of dollars I’ve spent on hair color,

Bleaching, dying, highlighting, glossing— was “Hairmaxxing.”

The way we squeezed our bodies into the correct form.

Shape wear, Spanx, and the jab of an underwire bra… Simply “Shapemaxxing.”

I bought shoes that were a size too small, as to not draw attention to my large feet.

Always wanting to shrink.

And the nail polish, serums, mascara, facemasks, foundation and pore strips…

Tanning beds, spray tans, lotions and hours spent frying our skin with UV.

I wish there was a trendy term for what we did.

I wished that journalists interviewed us about our quiet modifications.

I wish the internet had full communities to support whatever the hell this was (is)

The difference between this very male moment and our struggle—

Was that we were meeting the expectation.

Just being a girl.

Fitting in.

Obeying the standard.

The tireless, unseen work of being a woman.

So if these boys want to break their faces with a hammer, and inject themselves with steroids—

I say,

Welcome to the party, lads <3

The Last Word.

Sometimes there’s nothing profound to scream from the mountain top. Sometimes, the best wisdom is found pulling weeds in the yard or from quick call to your parents. Thank you for joining this verbal smorgasbord. May your thoughts be allowed to wander and may you always keep your head in the clouds.

Mirage: an optical effect that is sometimes seen in the desert, the sea or over a hot pavement, that may have the appearance of a pool of water or a mirror in which distant objects are seen as inverted.

Something illusory and unattainable.

From the French mirer, originating from the Latin mirari, meaning “to look at, to wonder at”

I hope to see you TOMORROW (May 1st, 6-9pm) for the opening of my new solo show! Come sip wine with your pinky up and pontificate so many new paintings. There will also be prints for sale with beautiful frames from Signed and Numbered. *If you can’t make it tomorrow, the show runs all month!

This caterpillar is finally ready to emerge from the cocoon and I can’t wait to see you!!

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Water Thoughts—

When you live in the desert— you become hyper aware of water. Where it pools, how it flows, and how much or little you have. When that desert is affected by drought, you become obsessed. One thing all creatures can understand is thirst.

This winter I visited Chicago during a cold snap. To keep the pipes from freezing during the -14F nights, the city urged residents to keep their taps running until the temperatures rose. Days of faucets, stacked 20 stories high, running around the clock. A constant stream from millions of kitchens and bathrooms felt wrong. But Lake Michigan didn’t budge. Icy abundance stretching in every direction.

Counter that with a recent bike-packing trip in the desert when I popped a hole in my precious plastic gallon jug. Since the ride was an out-and-back I left my punctured container propped under a juniper tree, and hoped to drink what remained on the ride back. As soon as I started to bike away, I felt the doom of leaving my lifeline. Lighter by weight, but heavier by consequence. As soon as you are without it, the thirst is immediate.

Our relationship and awareness of water feel either omnipresent, or non-existent. Usually taken for granted. Often an assumption. Sometimes, a lie.

“Utah is a state of paradox. Great Salt Lake embodies it. It is the liquid lie of the West, water in the desert no one can drink. Salt Lake City is a town of expressed and repressed passions.”

Terry Tempest Williams

The saline waters of Great Salt Lake are not the only liquid lie of the west. Our entire tangled system of water rights has also been a mirage. The Mountain West, has rooted our water usage on the outdated 1922 Colorado River Compact (which assumes annual flows of 16.4 million acre-feet (MAF) when in reality we teeter around 12.4 MAF.) About 40 million people are now are dependent on imagined depths, and false flows, Compounded with a a 25-year mega drought, we are now on the precipice. What was promised, does not exist.

Yet, there are creatures that can only be found in ephemeral desert puddles. Fish that have evolved in remote desert springs. Microscopic organisms that can be without water for thirty years, exposed to extreme heat and cold, and with a few drops of water, they are reborn. There are always ways to survive and adapt to a drying world.

Cool Sips: Miraculous anecdotes about water and survival.

• Petrichor: The pleasant, earthy, and sometimes sweet scent released when rain falls on dry soil. It is created when rain droplets trap air bubbles containing plant oils and a compound called geosmin, which are released as aerosols upon impact. The term, coined in 1964, comes from Greek, meaning “stone” (petra) and the fluid in the veins of gods (ichor).

  A human’s ability to detect the smell of rain is stronger than that of a shark detecting blood? We can detect geosmin at a concentration as low as 5 parts per trillion! Meanwhile, sharks can only detect blood in water at 1 part per 10 billion. I guess you could say we are water predators!

• Remember Sea Monkeys?

  Well—they are a type of anhydrobiotic organism that are capable of surviving extreme desiccation by losing nearly all body water and entering a reversible state of suspended animation. Upon encountering water, these organisms can rehydrate and resume normal metabolic activity, sometimes after decades of dehydrated dormancy.

• Drops from home.

  Have you ever wondered how long it takes a water molecule to recirculate from river, rain to cloud? Turns out it varies! Water in our atmosphere is entirely replaced every 8 to 10 days! While the “Residence Time” of ocean water is is roughly 3,000 years.
  

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Thank you so much for reading. May you take time to notice small miracles— and always keep you head in the clouds.

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To swim in a body of water during a desert drought— feels both defiant and delicious. This is my main goal as I teleport southbound on the I-15. The feathers on my dashboard (sandhill, magpie, red-tailed hawk) dance in the air-conditioning breeze, as the devout Wasatch sprawl fades to a patchwork of cow-dotted agriculture, red hills and juniper.

I am kept company by billboards with the usual claims. “Jesus is real.” “Life begins at conception.” “Community College is right for you!” “The Hardest 9 holes in Utah.” “Free breakfast at the Days Inn.”

Between pumping $4.20 gasoline and sipping stale coffee, I’m listing to the Craig Childs audiobook, The Secret Life of Water, to further submerge my mind in tales of desert springs and wild western rivers. I’m on my way to St. George Utah for a painting gig at a fancy hotel, but no desert roadtrip is complete without a side quest, and a few dips.

Dip #1 : Screams from the Oasis: The Red Cliffs National Conservation Area

My timing is terrible. It’s peak season, midday and apparently spring break. The cries of slippery-Croc kiddos echo between splashes, and the narrow canyon feels like a line for an amusement park ride. Tired parents lean against the sandstone walls in the oasis, while the youths climb Moki steps and test their fear of heights, leaping into the waterfall pool.

I only have an hour, so I shuffle past the dripping bodies and ascend the winding stream. Just a few minutes of wiggling and I was alone again, gasping cold when my feet suddenly lost the sandy ground in the silty green water. Scratching at the smooth walls, stemming and slipping through constrictions, I became a child wiggling through on an ancient playground.

Dip #2 Will paint for pool access: Black Desert Resort.

Indeed the reason I came all this way— a live painting gig at Black Desert Resort: a very contentious modern megalith of golf and highish-end hospitality. While wandering around (very lost) trying to find my room (in building 49?) among the freshly planted palm trees, I was buzzed by many white-sock khaki-clad golf carts. Admittedly— these are not my people, but I’ve seen this film before. Living in a resort town and dabbling in the service industry has allowed me to peer behind the veil of “luxury,” to see the truth behind its facade.

I’ve worked at annual conferences for big companies like Apple, Morgan Stanley and Chase Bank, where employees work hard all year to reach a corporate goal that earns a few days at a ritzy hotel, with one fancy dinner of accolades, a few team-building sessions, and a porporri of waspy activities to choose from (fly-fishing, yoga, snow-shoeing…)

One good thing about corporate America, is that it pays well. So here I am at my easel in poorly lit conference room, painting the resort (within the actual resort), being serenaded by a local musician and cracking jokes with the guests who sip wine and compliment my color choices. When the guests leave to go stargazing, the caterers invite me and the musician to dine at the leftover buffet.

I gorge on pork belly sliders and charcuterie, while the bartender laments the price of rent and tells me how he buys eggs at one grocery store and toiletries at another to earn more loyalty points— all while he pours almost full champagne bottles down the drain. The lavish spread of artisanal cheese, sticky honeycomb and lobster rolls tumble into an industrial sized trash bag. The sick cycle of waste and wanting continues.

In order to witness this level of waste, you have to detach. Separate yourself from the resources it took to grow that food, the person who cooked and plated each risotto ball with precision. I try not to consider the price of it all. Sunk cost. Golf in the desert. It’s this detachment and human separation that’s the pulsing heart of hospitality and large scale events. Everyone plays their part. Guests are greeted by smiling staff. Housekeepers use separate elevators. And we all believe the myth that everyone is glad you’re here.

This is also the double-edged sword of being an artist. You’re dependent on a socioeconomic strata who has expendable income and values the arts. It’s indeed the tourism industry, corporate events, and the gig economy that have given me the financial freedom to become a full-time artist. Do I dare bite the hand that feeds this career?

But beyond the existential, is a very nice swimming pool. Clad in a white terry-cloth robe, Keurig coffee in hand, I take in the sunrise before getting a few laps in the crystal chlorinated waters.

Dip #3 Me and the Jeeps: Toquerville Falls

Portly men are letting the air hiss out of their Jeep’s knobby tires. I lather on sunscreen and lower my mountain bike from my car’s rack. The contrast between my pink spandex padded shorts and their “Let’s go Brandon,” car stickers is apparent. To my delight, I’m pedaling (a grinding chunky uphill) for a good hour before I hear the gasoline rumble and taste the dust of their 4x4 rock-crawling train. Ahhh, the peaceful sounds of the Utah desert.

Sharing the trail with Power Ranger dirt bike teens and America first brappers is worth it, to baptize in tiered cascade of Toquerville Falls. The sound of water now drowns out the revving engines, and after making the wives take a picture of their Jeeps lined up atop the falls, they jostle along their way. The water is icy and the spray catches sunlight, beaming platinum against the blue sky. An electric green cottonwood is perched at the head of the falls, and I wonder what she thinks of all us hooligans.

Dip #4 Human Turtle Soup: Meadow Hot Springs.

Sedated by the sunny drive home, I almost miss the exit— my final dip. Beyond the alfalfa and hay fields lay a rutted clay parking lot with the usual soaking suspects… Some beat up campers, a token Tacoma and a clapped out Civic with Mexican blanket seat covers. People of the hot springs.

The tepid green waters of these geode-like springs do not make me feel cleaner (lots of piss I’m sure) but I see tiny fish and even a turtle amid the algal floaties, which makes me feel better. It’s Sunday afternoon in rural Utah, and folks of all stripes are enjoying themselves at the water’s edge.

It’s human to gather around water. And it’s human to leave a mess. Walking back to my car (already dry from the wind), the trail is sprinkled with orange peels, cigarette butts, beer cans and a child’s underwear. Just hours ago, along the cement banks of palm-lined hotel pool were card keys, striped towels that never intended to land in the bin and crushed water bottles. One in the same.

The telephone poles thank me for stopping by, and I drive away, feeling that cinematic longing for something— that never was mine in the first place.

On the Horizon: Upcoming Events and Happenings.

Friday May 1st—Mirage. Illusions of water in the West. Opening Party, 6-9 pm @ Signed & Numbered, 2320 S W Temple St, SLC UT 84115

Shiny Pebbles:

Little treasures picked-up along the way… To be admired on a windowsill, or forgotten in your pocket.

“Follow the mirage. Water or heat waves? One can never be sure. Perhaps this is the illusion that shimmers on the edge of any hometown or ambition.”

A City of Salt and Granite, Terry Tempest Williams

Vegas Agrees on Water. Why can’t Utahns? — A bite-sized podcast

contrasting water usage between two desert states.

My niece wants to open the window on the airplane so she can touch the fluffy clouds.

I explain why you can’t touch a cloud,

Just like you can’t hug the ocean.

.

Flying above It all,

The plane casts a shadow on the patchwork farmland and braided wetlands,

And I wonder—

.

When the cloud looks down to the lake below,

Can she see their resemblance?

Distant relatives, someday to be reunited.

.

As a summer storm, or winter snow.

As tears or on lips of a cold sigh.

The journey back to yourself takes many forms.

Thank you so much for reading. May you swim every chance you get— and always keep your head in the clouds.

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“Some things are too important to be taken seriously,” —Oscar Wilde

Maybe it was growing up in a boring small town, or that youngest child gotta-be-different angst, but I’ve always been a little rogue. As a kid I made my own fun and preferred climbing trees and making berry potions in the backyard over YMCA Soccer.

Today my rebellion takes a different shape. Raging against the Strava, GPS watch, FKT, PR culture of the Mountain West with unmeasurable and bizarre physical quests. I give you a new outdoor adventure acronym: The RRA— Random Rogue Adventure.

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ROGUE: As an adjective, rogue describes something or someone unprincipled, rebellious, or operating outside of established, normal, or safe constraints.

Defiant: insubordinate, rebellious, noncompliant.

Unpredictable/Untamed: wayward, unorthodox, deviant, erratic.

What qualifies an RRA?

The ideal RRA is strange, self-made quest with zero glory and lots of potential suffering. It’s about chasing creative goals instead of speed or distance. RRA’s thrive with a lack of planning and may be inspired by a unknown blob on GoogleMaps, or the sheer curiosity of what lies beyond the barbed wire fence. Best attempted alone (as to not ruin anyone else’s day but your own) and ideally done on a whim with a healthy dose of chaos and forgotten warm layers.

Where can I have a RRA?

The ideal rogue adventure takes place off the beaten path… Maybe in an area so remote that you can get completely naked at any point. Or on the back alleys of a city sprawl. Ideally a route that includes light trespassing or leaves you wondering, “Am I allowed to be here?” Zones on the edge of industrial wasteland, deserted mines or shooting ranges are perfect. Seek out the less sparkly jurisdictions where the local gas station is the cultural center of town. AKA places with no athleisure-clad hikers and weirdos like yourself.

Some local Utah RRA’s may include but are not limited to:

-Biking along the forgotten causeways of Great Salt Lake

-Questing to find a mysterious backcountry trampoline

-Summiting the peaks adjacent to the Kennecott Copper Mine

-Rollerblading the entirety of State Street.

If you’re asking yourself, “Why the hell am I doing this?” you’re doing it right! It’s actually great to feel like an idiot as you spend your one wild a precious life pushing your bike through snow, or getting covered in burrs on an forgotten trail.

Seasonality is also an important aspect to the RRA. A winter stand up paddle board? Skiing the last remaining 50-foot sliver snow in August? Now you’re talking! This winter has been the driest and warmest Utah has ever seen, leaving the mountains void of their iconic champagne powder, and the foothills appear permanently stained a thirsty brown. The silver lining of living with climate change is there are ample opportunities for new RRA’s.

For example: winter road-closures + no snow = having the entire mountain pass to yourself! And with Great Salt Lake’s shores ever-receding, places that once required a boat now just require two wheels, lots of sunscreen and some try-hard. With climate change’s unpredictability, who knows what odd and catastrophic scenarios we may find ourselves navigating.

The best part about these silly quests, is that when you get turned away by the elements, a tired body or sheer boredom, it doesn’t really matter. Sometimes you’ll limp back to your car, feeling sheepish about the whole thing, but invigorated because you tried.

Rogue adventuring is a metaphor for taking risks in life. Purposefully stepping into the unknown feels irrational, but may lead you to unimaginable wonder.

“Man can learn nothing except by going from the known to the unknown.”

-Claude Bernard

The real reason I crave these rogue adventures, is to feel feral in a very domestic and safe existence. Like a herding dog that needs to run, I must escape my studio and challenge my physical body to remember my true nature.

Painting requires a complete peaceful presence that I can only access once I’ve cleared my mind and exhausted my body under a big blue sky. I find so much joy and inspiration in intentional, lone-wolf aloneness.

Maybe a silly little quest is the secret ingredient to get out of your routine. The extra spice you need to stop caring about societal benchmarks and measured success. A container to remember how bizarre it is to even be alive!

Do remember… There is no morality attached to how far you went or hard you worked for something. You don’t need a suffer-fest to finding beauty. It’s all around us. In the parking lot of the Walmart and the moonlit alley where you sneaky piss after the concert. And more times than I’d like to admit, the vista on top of the mountain isn’t as good as the view from the interstate.

*Semi-Responsible Word of Caution: I’m not a role model or your mother, so take these words with a grain of salt. Don’t go too rogue… Try not to get hurt or do anything too illegal in the name of RRA. Love ya, don’t die!

Show Announcement!

I find myself again, At the water’s edge.

Thirsting for answers to what is essential.

Peering through dust, there are glimmers on the horizon.

Is hope an illusion?

How dare I pull from an ever drying well.

But the beauty is so great, I drink, and drink.

Opening Party Friday May 1st, 6-9 pm

@ Signed & Numbered, 2320 S W Temple St

Salt Lake City, UT 84115

On the Horizon: Upcoming Events and Happenings.

*This Tuesday! 3/24 — Wasatch Winter Watercolor Class @ TF Brewing — 6-8pm

March 26 — April 4, 2026- “A Symphony of Disappearing Sounds,” for Great Salt Lake, a free, immersive sound and light installation by artist Olafur Eliasson running at Salt Lake City's Memory Grove. Activations is 9pm nightly.

May 1st—Mirage. Illusions of water in the West. Opening Party Friday May 1st, 6-9 pm @ Signed & Numbered, 2320 S W Temple St, SLC UT 84115

Now through July 11th — “I Must Be Dreaming,” featuring 40 female and non-binary artists. Fice Gallery, 160 E 200 S, SLC UT 84111

May 9th— Range to River Relay, 2:00 PM 4:00 PM. Explore the condition of the Salt Lake Valley’s waterways and learn about recreation in your backyard! Three Creeks Confluence Park, 950 West 1300 South StreetSalt Lake City, UT, 84104

Shiny Pebbles: Little treasures picked-up along the way… To be admired on a windowsill, or forgotten in your pocket.

This Book: Holy shit… An incredibly beautiful, painful and enlightening look at the realities of motherhood and the wildly misunderstood female experience. I am no where near having kids, but I think this should be required reading (or listening) for anyone who has been born!

Birdwatching with a furry friend is infinitely more fun. *I’m kitty sitting this sweetie at the moment and loving every minute of it.

First attempts at Cyanotype have been very fun, and very challenging! So many variables… So much blue!

That feeling… When you find the perfect dune.

A BIG Cheers to the kind old man who left us a carton of wine for us on our bike-packing adventure! Happy to report there are still good people in the crazy world

.

Thank you so much for reading. May you always stay a little rogue— and keep your head in the clouds.

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A question among friends led to a conversation theorizing why we can or cannot recall our subconscious storylines.

Realizing I’d been in a dream drought, I’ve started being more intentional with my sleep. By simply focusing as I drift off and then taking a moment upon waking, I can magically recollect my subconscious adventures in wild detail.

This new superpower feels like having nightly tickets to a one-time movie (starring myself) that’s typically absurd, but strangely poignant. A bizarre mix of mundane familiarity — but sprinkled with the ability to fly, superhuman strength or casual celebrity friends.

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In sharpening my dream skills, I’ve realized there are certain landscapes that are recurrent. Landmarks that have fixed physical locations in my dreaming world, where I can always visit. They are amalgamations of real places, but with the dial turned WAY up on their emotional and geological intensity.

—There’s the ancient granite castle on the saline lake (Like if the Great Saltair and Neuschwanstein Castle had a baby.)

—There’s the cliffy Australian beach town with a turquoise point break dotted with sun-bleached surfers.

—And most recently, a freshwater swimming pool/greenhouse, where I breaststroke through lanes of floating lilies and marsh grasses

*Apologies for doing that awful thing where you describe your dreams to someone… Oof!

So why do we so easily forget these incredible dreams? Basically, when we sleep, the hippocampus (the brain’s memory center) is unplugged. While dreaming, our brain prioritizes silly storylines over memory storage. Waking up abruptly disrupts our fragile short-term memory, causing rapid fading, with up to 90% forgotten within minutes of our alarm clock. Bummer.

“No phenomenon is a real phenomenon until it is an observed phenomenon.”

-John Archibald Wheeler, (American theoretical physicist who coined the term “Black Hole.”)

Expanding my awareness in the dream world feels like unlocking a deeper realm of object permanence. Like a baby playing peek-a-boo with other realities, I’m beginning to play with the endless possibilities of the mind. This is part of the reason why our best ideas come to us in the shower, driving a car, or in the middle of the night. When we are relaxed, our brain enters alpha or flow state, dipping our toes into the deep well of imagination that we drink from nightly.

I’d like to believe that moonlighting with this creativity while asleep, might expand my ability to dream bigger while awake. With more trust in what’s beyond the waking human experience, and more magic to continually forget with the buzz of our alarm clock.

Coincidence, manifestation or just paying attention?

If the desire to remember dreams brings them to life, what other magic can be born from intention? I’m asking this in the least Life-Coachy way possible…

When I’m open to life’s wonders, the subtle currents of the universe seem to guide me to continual coincidences. I’m sure you notice these little magics too… Like when you get a message from a long distance friend you haven’t spoken to in years, but have been thinking about nonstop. Or when you’ve been missing your grandmother’s snickerdoodle cookies, and your neighbor happens to make them for you the next day.

Or the luck of stumbling into Alexandra Fuller’s show, A Participatory Universe, which explores how observation transforms perception. I’ve been a fan of her work for years, and the way she depicts the dreamlike western landscape feels both sincere and mythical.

I’m not one for crystal manifesting, or self-helpy embodiment… But I’ll admit to being a full-throated evangelical for the wonders of this world, and the infinite and invisible ways we are connected. Consider constellations: our starry companions full of lore and meaning.

We project our human stories onto these balls of gas, when in reality, their individual stars are lightyears apart— completely disconnected and unaware that for millennia our human eyes have decided they are warriors, crabs and dippers.

But where’s the fun in that?

On the Horizon: Upcoming Events and Happenings.

3/5 —A conversation with Terry Tempest Williams about her new book The Glorians. SLC Main Public Library, 6:00pm. *Tickets Required

Now until 3/16 — HERE, Connor Weight’s Solo Show @ Red Flower Studios SLC

3/24 — Wasatch Winter Watercolor Class @ TF Brewing — 6-8pm

5/1 — A Solo Show by yours truly!! @ Signed and Numbered , Opening Party 6-9pm. More details to come :)

On the easel—

With only a 10% chance that Utah will reach an average snowpack after this dismal winter, water (and the lack thereof) is deeply on my mind. The constant tornado of bad news spiraling from our looney toons government feels like a distraction from the omnipresent doom of drought in the West.

I can already smell the wildfire smoke of the coming summer, and am taking these concerns to the canvas. To cope, I’m sipping from a wellspring of memories, and meditating on my own relationship with water in a desert state. Throwing penny wishes in the fountain of our future, and thirsting for solutions in a parched political hellscape— one audio book at a time.

Soooo… The POTUS has unexpected started to care about Great Salt Lake?? I’m grateful for the concern, but wary of criminals and mirages.

On my mind—

This Podcast:

Ologies: Oneirology (DREAMS) with Dr. G. William Domhoff. A very entertaining decoding of the dreamworld with our girl, Alie Ward.

These Books:

The Secret Knowledge of Water by Craig Childs. Just started this one, but am already smitten by secret watering holes in the Chihuahuan desert, and the ancient wisdoms of desert people and animals.

Downriver: Into the Future of Water in the West by Heather Hansman. A former raft guide journalist paddles the length of the Green River to better understand water in the west. A very educational and honest river trip.

This album:

Patience Moonbeam by Great Grandpa. Hip lovechild of Arcade Fire + Pinegrove. Cinematic and heartfelt.

On the bright side—Recycling is real!

After a very wholesome and educational adult field trip to the local landfill and recycling center, I am (surprisingly) full of hope. There are some real incredible people who are dedicating their lives to better waste management, and the technology being used is incredible.

As a recycling skeptic, I was shocked to witness the three miles of conveyor belt sorting that organizes single stream recycling. Don’t believe me?? Take a tour yourself and be amazed!

One of the coolest elements of the recycling facility was this eddy-current separator that temporarily charges aluminum cans to be “magnetic” and jump off the conveyor belt.

Is this real life, or am I dreaming? Either way—better to keep your head in the clouds.

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Driving home after on the clear winter nights of December, I was struck by the amount of shooting stars I saw, perfectly framed in my dirty windshield. Counter that phenomenon with this month’s full moon, when I purposefully went night strolling to commune with the lunar powers that be, and solidify my 2026 ambitions. Despite my pure intentions, all I found were heavy clouds.

I guess I prefer serendipitously finding, rather than seeking. The joy of discovering a shiny pebble, trailside feather, or hat on the sidewalk is what I live for. This is the spirit I’m keeping while I enter my annual artistic hibernation. After the frenetic and amazing holiday season, I now am left with an empty studio. A clean slate.

I’m allowing myself to take dance classes, make crafts and romp around in nature without an end goal. Giving myself space to just look up.

So here are a few things I’ve found by coincidence in the new year.. And a few things I might always be looking for.

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Failure of the Year Award

Someone recently asked me, what was my biggest failure of 2025?

Easy… My addiction to social media…

That unique algorithmic sugar-high that eats my attention in parking lots or on the toilet. A craving deeper than cigarettes, caffeine or alcohol—and laced with cute puppies and Heated Rivalry memes to keep me coming back. Not to mention the double-edged sword of being an artist who relies on visual storytelling for my livelihood, I grapple with this compulsion hourly.

What is the purpose of sharing, and why do we do it?

Whether it’s a selfie, or mountain vista, a new painting or cute snippet of my nieces, the insatiable urge to share now flavors every aspect of my life. It’s like I’m a director on a film set, decided what shot will best capture the essence the scene— be it funny or profound. And I wonder… Is this inherently a bad thing?

I go back and forth on this see-saw…

Sharing (just like this here post) is an outlet for creativity. A way to connect with likeminded folks… Or maybe it’s the slow creep of becoming a cyborg— uploading my attention and consciousness to an algorithmic avatar who is more interesting than I am in “real life?” The personal blend of internal purpose and external validation is a recipe for dependence.

“Hide not your talents, they for use were made, What’s a sundial in the shade?”

-Benjamin Franklin

The more I chew on this feeling, the closer I get to the root of it. I think it’s the fear of being forgotten and the need to feel valued and liked.

Like a War Boy in Mad Max, we are all in front of the tiny camera, sucking chrome is screaming, “Witness Me!!!!!,” in an era where our attention span continues to be snipped in half

To have someone witness my life, makes my experience feel valid. “If a tree falls in the woods,” but extended to a good hair day, or that parking lot sunrise. There are indeed moments of beauty worth sharing, every, single day. But there’s also so much injustice, suffering and downright fuckery that poisons my attention and demands reckoning with.

If I’m being honest, much of my days are spent by myself, with the only voices I hear coming from choice podcasts or memorized Taylor Swift albums. Sometimes my social life feels more parasocial than anything. Getting a little hits of dopamine, but never fully scratching the itch for real human connection. Remember the time before smartphones, where we just, hung out?!

I’m not here to pledge that I’m taking a break from social media in the new year. Instead, I’m just recognizing the immense struggle, joy, laughter, connection, disconnection and anger I have toward the cog that (fortunately/unfortunately) makes this little business run.

Upcoming Events + Goodies :

*Thank YOU for making the past two months a success. I now feel safe to rest, and plant seeds for new artwork to slowly grow. If you’ve been dreaming of a commissioned painting, now is a good time to drop me a line— annaleighmoo@gmail.com <3

• Altered States in the Acid West opening reception, Friday, January 16, 2026.
  6:00 pm-9:00 pm. At UMOCA.

• Love Birds Watercolor Class at TF Brewing. Tuesday, February 10, 2026.

  Come learn to paint local birdies with someone you love— or just with your lovely self!

• 5th Annual Rally to Save Great Salt Lake Saturday, January 31, 2026 at 12pm at the Utah State Capitol

• Hand Embellished Canvas Prints Order Form. While I redesign my website and figure out the best way to streamline this process… I offer you a humble way to order high quality canvas prints for your casa.

• *Do you or someone you know have an art gallery? I’m looking for a space to host a solo show this spring, and would love to get connected with the right folks to make this happen.

Shiny Pebbles:

Little treasures picked-up along the way… To be admired on a windowsill, or forgotten in your pocket.

“Ain't no money in poetry
That's what sets the poet free
I've had all the freedom I can stand
Cold dog soup and rainbow pie
Is all it takes to get me by
Fool my belly till the day I die
Cold dog soup and rainbow pie.” - Guy Clark

Where do you go to pray?

*Real prayers*

The kind that are whispered from your heart, to the heart of it all.

My type of praying is very different from the prayers I was fed as a child.

Far from the Lord’s Prayer / Hail Mary / Pledge of Allegiance combo I recited in my collared shirt every morning at Catholic school.

With institutionalized memorization, each word lost its meaning.

And definitely not like the prayers that were theatrically performed at the megachurch my family later attended.

Those well-versed prayers slivered from the mouth of a very tan, coiffed and charismatic man who is now a life coach.

It’s my humble opinion that real prayers need not a mic, a stage or an accompanying PowerPoint presentation full of clever biblical acronyms.

No organ, or ancient hymns, or creaky pews, or sweaty, “Peace be with you,” handshakes.

Typically, I’m not praying on a Sunday.

Rather— a Tuesday at 10 AM when I’m out of breath, and slightly off- trail.

I pray best when feeling hungry, listening to the wind on a ridge.

Looking out and wondering, “What’s the point?”

Maybe the whole point of this life— is to stand on the ridge and wonder,

“What’s the point?”

To simply observe the harmonious and chaotic terrarium of this planet—

And give thanks to be a forgettable part of it all.

I’m a lush for the Holy Spirit of solitude.

A glutton for God’s Country—all to myself.

Preaching to the choir of meadowlarks,

An audience of none.

I pray to have it no other way.

So this is the New Year… And I don’t feel any different… But it’s still important— to always keep your head in the clouds.

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Today I’ll be offering up windswept mesas, desert rivers, with some high alpine majesty in between… I’m yearning for more space (mental and physical) in the coming year, which means letting go of some of my children.

I know you’ll make great parents ;)

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How it works—

1. I’ll be listing a whole gaggle of original artwork today (12/4) at noon. I’ll be organizing the sale from small watercolors—> large oils. Just click my Instagram Story to join the sale!

2. To claim a painting, send me a DM on Instagram (or shoot an email to annaleighmoo@gmail.com if you’re “old fashioned”) I’m happy to send more info and images of a piece if you’d like :)

3. On a tight budget? Make me an offer… I would love to hook it up for the homies for the holidays <3

4. Shipping is free for all watercolors, and canvases under 18x24”. Local pick-up / delivery in Salt Lake City and Park City area is lovely —and can be organized before the holidays.

5. Payment via Venmo is preferred, but I whatever is easiest for you, works for me.

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I hope — that you’re cozied up on a well-worn couch surrounded by family, friends or a squishy cat. I hope you’re telling a funny story about that one uncle, or sneaking off to nap between butter-laden meals. I hope that you’ve started your resolution early and are enjoying less screen time, or maybe you’re taking a walk outside to feel the crunch of frozen leaves under your feet.

But if you’re like me, and find yourself somewhere between our best self and the regular ol’ unimproved version we’ve always been— Welcome!

*I’ll keep it brief

According to optometrists, it’s good for our eyes to oscillate between focusing on something that’s really far away, and then something really close. Like a morning stretch for our eyeballs, resting our gaze to a far off horizon not only strengthens our vision, but gently combs our consciousness

In this seasonal moment, I feel very short-sighted. I can hardly see beyond my messy kitchen table which has become a collage of sharpie lists, trying to organize the things I should be doing.

I’m not what you would call an organized person… Spreadsheets give me the heebie-jeebies and I work best in short tornado bursts that leave piles of debris on every surface of my studio. My style of “work,” is packing an Etsy orders, while simultaneously dreaming of new painting concepts, scribbling lines of a poem, marinading chicken and plotting tomorrow’s workout.

And although my holiday season is a marathon of markets, and custom orders to rival any elf, at least I can rest my weary eyes on faraway mountains from my front door.

At 8,000 ft elevation, up 48 stairs, and perched on a grassy slope, is my little house—which provides a sweeping view of the Park City Ridgeline. In the single year I’ve lived here, I’ve taken approximately 900 photos of this view (usually barefoot on the porch in the morning to catch the alpenglow). My attention is regularly stolen by afternoon storms or feuding hawks that force my screen-addicted eyes to focus on the expansive. And for that, I am grateful.

Over these next few weeks, I challenge you to lift your eyes from the menial (this very screen, emails, shopping lists) and find presence in yonder horizon. Try to enjoy the fickle fluctuation of being in this moment, while expanding your intentions to the great beyond.

Upcoming Markets + Holiday Sales

ONLINE
*IG Story Studio Sale, 12/4, 12pm - Screamin’ deals on original paintings! Help me clear out my studio to start fresh in 2026.
* Etsy—New Prints and *Ornaments* are now available, and Substack subscribers get 20% off all holiday season with code: SUBSTACK ❤️

MARKETS
-UMFA Holiday Market, 12/6+7, 10am-4pm, @ Utah Museum of Fine Art
-ACE Holiday Market, Thursday, 12/11, 2-7pm, @ Our Lady of the Snows
-TF Brewing Christkindlmarkt, 12/13, 1-9pm + 12/14, 12-6pm, @TF Brewing
-Swaner Wild Winter Market, 12/19, 5-8pm, @ Swaner EcoCenter

BRICK AND MORTAR
-CreatePC Holiday Makers Market, 11/21-1/31, @ Create PC, Park City, UT
-Salt & Honey Market, 11/24-1/1, @ Fashion Place Mall

Just for Kicks: Adopt-A-Tradition

*Ever wish you had more silly holiday traditions beyond the regular ol’ gifts, gravy and gagging on Eggnog? All it takes is one brave person to be the start something new (sung in the style of Gabriella and Troy… iykyk) Here are a few I’m going to advocate for this year….

1. The Christmas Pickle- Germany? USA?

   Whoever finds the Christmas pickle hidden on the tree gets an extra gift. Although The tradition is believed to originate in the U.S. from a savvy salesmen pitching a false, “ancient German tradition” to encourage sales of the otherwise unpopular pickle-shaped ornaments in 1880s.

   *As someone who has her own personal pickle ornament— I instead like to believe it brings luck and a dilly-crunch into the new year.

2. The 12 Grapes - Spain

   A New Year’s Eve custom where people eat one grape for each of the 12 clock chimes at midnight, bringing good luck for the new year. Today, many Spaniards watch the clock tower at Madrid’s Puerta del Sol while eating their 12 grapes in time with the chimes.

   *I feel that this could be a real joyful time of force-feeding grapes in quick succession to your friends at midnight. *Hot*

3. Rollerblading to Mass - Venezuela

   In Caracas, it’s typical to rollerblade to Christmas mass on Christmas morning. *And if the West keeps its dry-sreak, we may indeed be rollerblading instead of skiing this holiday season. Just don’t make me to go mass, please and thank you!

4. Krampus - Austria- On December 5th, Krampus, a horned, demonic figure, accompanies St. Nicholas to punish naughty children.

   *Make the holidays terrifying again??

   

Amidst the holiday madness, try to keep your eyes on what’s truly important… And always keep your head in the clouds.

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Fall— (v.) giving way to gravity and landing on the earth. To descend freely without control.

Leaves fall gracefully without protest, and the steady black eyes of the aspen tree mark where a branch once grew… Now fallen too.

Is it possible to shed parts ourselves and not dwell on what is lost? Truth be told, I don’t know how to fully let go of anything. I believe wholeheartedly that we never stop caring for the places and people we once loved (despite our best efforts).

I simply cannot part with anything sentimental and am prone to crippling bouts of nostalgia. Every few months, I get swallowed whole by old journals… The ones I’ve kept religiously since I was eight.

These gel pen autobiographies are accompanied by priceless souvenirs… A napkin from the cafe in London, a shell bracelet from an adolescent beach trip, or the note (circle “yes” or “no”) from a high school crush, are all kept in boxes for me to physically hold now and then. Each object is a personal Portkey to another time—proof of the life that’s already been lived. Evidence of moments that would otherwise be forgotten. Like autumn leaves that get to keep their color.

A horoscope-loving friend tells me this melancholia is due to the day I was born… Being a Cancer sun and Cancer moon cosmically drowns me in a sea of emotions where I swim the backstroke through memories on the regular…

*Shoutout to my fellow Cancer, Adrianne Lenker (Big Thief), who I recently had the pleasure of witnessing. Do yourself a favor and listen to her song “Doubly Infinity” to feel beautifully torn by the future and past too.

However, I think this yearning disposition is a due to separation… I’m 1,811 miles from where I grew up, and my family no longer lives in the ‘Leave it to Beaver’ small town where I spent the entirety of my rose-tinted childhood. Being so disconnected from the past has me grasping for the teeniest shreds of memory, and clinging to my own lore.

You just never know when it’s the last time.

The last time you eat the BEST pancakes at that diner, the last beer shared with an old teammate, the last hug from the teacher who encouraged you to leave in the first place. I often mourn the fact that I’ve unconsciously had so many lasts already. The likelihood of me running into a single high school classmate or hometown acquaintance is zero to none. Untethered from the past, I have to go out of my way to remember.

Sometimes— I can’t even decide if a memory was dreamed or real. Like the mossy-boulder cove on the Clarion River nicknamed, “Fern Gully,” or the ice cream shop where the hand-dipped cones were so tall, you’d have to tilt them sideways to fit through the to-go window.

If I can’t go there anymore, did these places ever exist?

My parents have since moved to a cookie-cutter Pittsburgh suburb, with matching mailboxes, where someone mows the lawn for you. They love it. And it all feels so different from the house they built on the edge of the quiet woods with a magical laurel-lined trail to the river, and a short bike ride to the quaint Main Street.

Does it hurt when an aspen tree drops a branch? Do they notice what is lost at the cost of growth?

In my current neighborhood, I’ve been going on short walks to admire the autumn colors —but really to pet my neighbor’s kittens. On these evening ambles, I purposefully leave my phone at home, and like clockwork there is something amazingly beautiful that I’m unable to record. The rainbow streaking across the rainy Uinta Mountains, or two bull elk battle-bugling on opposing hillsides— must remain undocumented. Just remembered. Or even forgotten.

If our mind is like a hard-drive, I guess it can get it too full. If that’s the case, forgetting must be a part of welcoming the present moment.

And then letting it fall away.

There’s a lot of hype around autumns in New England…

Folks say there’s nothing like strolling along a Vermont covered bridge while eating an apple cider donut. But truth be told— I’m partial to a Western fall.

Where neon lemon leaves pierce the deep blue sky, and the chamisa and sunflowers compete for golden attention along the highway. Where the first snow clings to craggy peaks, frosting the the last leaves like a final crescendo before it all fades to brown.

The timeless, *showgirl* star of autumn in Utah— is unequivocally the aspen tree. May you stand in reverence of this white-barked wizard, equipped with some new tree-facts.

Aspen FUN Facts:

• Healing Process: Over time, aspen bark heals over the scars of shedded branches, creating the distinct, eye-like shapes that have been seen as “spirit eyes,” or windows to the soul, suggesting the tree holds memories.

• Instead of growing from seeds, new trunks sprout from the existing, ancient root system via "clonal growth,” with many individual trunks connected by a single, massive root system

• Pioneer Species: Aspen are quick to colonize disturbed sites, such as those left after forest fires.

• Natural firebreak: Aspen trees have low flammability. They can act as a natural firebreak, sometimes causing a violent conifer crown fire to drop to the ground or be extinguished

• Pareidolia: The human mind often perceives patterns and familiar shapes in these markings, a phenomenon called pareidolia.

• Pando is the world’s largest aspen grove and second largest living organism. It is estimated to be between 9,000 and 16,000 years old, though some earlier estimates suggested it could be up to 80,000 years old. This clonal colony of Quaking Aspen in Utah is considered one of the oldest living organisms on Earth due to its massive, interconnected root system. The age is difficult to determine precisely because it’s a single root system with many individual trunks, and the root system predates the formation of the surrounding landscape by glaciers.

Upcoming Events:

Utah Design Exhibit, Friday, October 10, 12:00 PM - 9:00 PM PDT (although the evening is the real party!) Come see furniture, art and more from Utah’s hippest builders, including my hubby, Franklin Woodworking!

In Dreams at The Gala SLC, October 10, 7-11 pm *Some incredible works by dear friends will be debuting.

Winter Peaks Watercolor Class @ TF Brewing - 11/18, 6-8pm -spots are filling fast!

*WOW! No more markets until the holidays! Can you believe it?! I’m still waiting to hear back from a few winter markets, but I’ll definitely be at:

The UMFA Holiday Market- Saturday and Sunday, December 7 and 8, 9 am—5 pm

ACE Holiday Market- Thursday December 11, 2pm-7pm

As a reward for reading to the bottom of this post… I’m letting you read some *TOP SECRET* excerpts from my childhood diaries. Be warned. It’s some real hard-hitting stuff!

OH BOY!

Thank you for reading.

May your memories keep their color,

May your feet be planted in the leaves of this present moment,

And may you always keep your head in the clouds.

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From the summit of Mount Timpanogos I can see water.

To the west, the chalky blue expanse of Utah Lake, and to the east, the motorboat-streaked Deercreek Reservoir. I can also see teeny turquoise swimming pools and neon green golf courses speckling the parched land like an endless switchboard sprawl.

It all leaves me feeling thirsty.

Truth be told, the thirst isn’t just metaphorical. I started this hike with less water than I should’ve for two (stupid) reasons:

1. In rushing out of my car to start hiking (before the loud family toting two 10-year-old boys)— I forgot to fill my second water bottle.

2. Once I realized my mistake— I accepted my fate with genuine curiosity to see how my body would function on the 14 mile (6,800 ft) hike.

   *Maybe there was a subconscious desire to feel thirst like the parched land I was traversing too.

On the windy summit I sit on the sun-warmed rocks, nibbling crackers and very conservatively sipping my water. The view is lovely, but the real reason I hoofed up here shimmers below.

Emerald Lake is a deep green teardrop at the base of Mount Timpanogos’s dwindling snowfield. Like a lush terrarium in a sea of stone— bathing birds, buzzing bees, lazy mountain goats and weary hikers all find rest on her loamy shore. I dive into the jade geode and lose my breath. After going completely numb, I sprawl in the soft grass and stare up at the dancing lupine, savoring each shiver. There is nothing more luxurious in this world.

*And nothing more satisfying than an ice cold dirty soda after being thoroughly dehydrated. #OnlyinUtah

“There is no shortage of water in the desert but exactly the right amount, a perfect ratio of water to rock, water to sand, insuring that wide free open, generous spacing among plants and animals, homes and towns and cities, which makes the arid West so different from any other part of the nation. There is no lack of water here unless you try to establish a city where no city should be.”

― Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness

Truth or dare?

Living in the high desert—(especially during a drought) feels like a double-dog dare. There’s also the undeniable “truth” that I am a part of the problem… Holding my straw to an ever dwindling water supply, in a state that consistently puts economic growth over our impending environmental nuclear bomb.

Truth is hard to swallow with a dry mouth and I was always more of a dare gal… So I continue to put roots down in the hard, dry dirt.

It’s that time of year again— when Utah Lake is in full algal bloom, wildfire haze is omnipresent and Great Salt Lake becomes more mirage than water. All of this heightens my water awareness and dares me to swim any change I can. The scarcity of water in Utah makes it feel truly sacred to baptize in any body of water— be it swimming pools, alpine lakes, or rivers.

The reservoirs close to my house continue to recede, exposing more silt and trash, but I swim anyway. And if I squint my eyes, the sun-bleached shores dotted with scrubby bushes resemble the Mediterranean. I wonder if the shores of Santorini are littered with vape containers and broken glass too.

Finally, a prayer answered.

The first real rain since the Fourth of July.

Driving home up the puddled dirt road to my house, I roll the window down to bask in the intoxicating smell. Pine sap, mint, earthworms, sweet grass, eucalyptus and peppery sage. The fragrance cools my lungs like menthol. As if the plants and I have taken a collective exhale — releasing the things we’ve been holding onto so tight.

Upcoming Events/ Promotions:

September
9/20 SLC Farmers Market
9/27 SLC Farmers Market

October
10/2 Plein Air Watercolor Class @ Bonanza Flats Trailhead- 5:30-7:30pm
10/4 SLC Farmers Market

10/5 *End of Summer IG Story Sale* Fire deals for followers and friends.

Just for YOU!!! Use code “SeptemberSubstack” 20% off all hats this month :)

Things of Beauty:

• A Menagerie of Beasts and Belonging: Solo show from Caro Nilsson at Fice Gallery. Nilsson’s heartfelt paintings empathetically capture the ways we tangle with natural world. If you’re in downtown SLC, go check it out!!

• It’s Rabbitbrush season! This fluffy, yellow late-bloomer is also known as chamisa. I love seeing how different artists depict this bombastic bush!

• The Creative Act: A Way of Being, by Rick Rubin. A wonderful, pick-up-anytime read for anyone craving connection to their truest, most multifaceted self.

Side Rants:

It’s a shame golfers wear shoes at all. Such good grass, gone to waste. I’d like to propose an upgrade to the stuffy sport. Why not use the natural terrain to whack that white ball? Instead of guzzling water so polo-shirt retirees can ninny-foot on bright green manicured meadows, use the natural topography! I think it would take the sport to new levels of skill, and might even be fun to watch? Imagine… Swinging the ball at the edge of a cliff, and having to hike down into the ravine to find it! Thrilling!

*If you’re a big golfer I’m sorry… Mostly sorry that you’re into golf.

Thanks for going down this month’s rabbit hole! May you swim every single chance you get— and don’t forget keep your head in the clouds.

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It’s never how I envision it. So many paintings remain as doodles in my sketchbook, or recurring dreams to bring to reality another time. But — holy mackerel, when I try and fit all the finished paintings in a 10x10 booth, I realize how much I *have* accomplished.

I think the curse and blessing of being an artist is that it is that the work is never done. There will always be more to say, and boundless beauty to capture. I will always jumble the words of what the land is trying to say, but the message is getting clearer.

All of that to say…

I hope to see you tonight and this weekend at the Kimball Arts Festival!

Friday, August 1: 5:00pm – 9:00pm
Saturday, August 2: 10:00am – 8:00pm
Sunday, August 3: 10:00am – 6:00pm

Tonight is locals night and entrance is free to all Summit County Residents. Just fill out this form and sneak your wine in your bag ;) Cheers!

See you at Booth C66 in front of the Patagonia store :)

And if you give me a cold drink or a bathroom break this weekend at the fest…

*You get 50% off a print of your choice! I mean it!

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Love to you all! Have a great weekend, and keep your head in the clouds.

July—the month of my birth, always hits me like an ultimatum. It is a point of no return, both in my age and in the halcyon days of summer. This month, I’ve witnessed the snow melt entirely from the mountains I see from my porch, and it’s only getting hotter. With that dissolving, a familiar summertime urgency rises in my heart.

Locally—

The frenetic impulse to go and do *NOW* before this sweet moment dries up too. The insatiable need to climb the mountains before the air is thick with wildfire smoke. To bask in the blooming alpine before the yellow arnica crisps from too many sunny days. The urgency to get to the trailhead before it fills by 8am and the wanting to summit before midday heat bleaches the mountains in a pallid haze.

Before that one secret swimming spot is geotagged and loved to death by influencers and tourists alike. Before every parking lot becomes paid, and these wild places are changed forever. The undeniable gravity of summer makes me start to spiral as the western sun blares me awake every morning like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

Globally—

I cannot help feeling the compulsion to do something— anything, before it’s too late. Before Great Salt Lake dries, and we are left with the toxic dust bowl. Before water wars begin in the mountain west, and our ability to course correct for climate change is irreversible. Before the United States implodes or WW3 breaks out.

Internally—

The manic desire to go out dancing and feel the joy of twerking in the front row after one too many beers— because my body is solely mine and I am nobody’s mother. Before my knees sound like Rice Krispies, and my skin creases with a permanent smile. Before my parents can’t physically hike alongside me or have the energy to travel to the places they saved for retirement. Before my little nieces and nephews no longer run to greet me with a jumping hug.

So much about this moment feels painfully irreversible.

The intense seasonal fragility reminds me of my own lifecycle. That this time of abundance will not last. Truth be told, I feel like I’m in my own personal summer. After years of fumbling in the weeds and being blown by the wind, I’m finally rooted and full-color blooming like a roadside Indian paintbrush. I turned 34 this month and feel my toes dangling off the edge of era. Too young to be the leader of the free world, yet one year away from having any potential pregnancy be “geriatric,” is a fabulous metaphor for being a woman. Somehow we are always not enough, and too much in all life’s phases.

My partner and I joke that we are now of the age where the headline of our newsworthy death would simply say, “Man/Woman dies,” instead of something like —“Young man/woman tragically taken too soon.” The song Only the Good Die Young no longer applies. We are full-on adults, whether we feel like it or not.

Truth be told, I’m still dreaming of what I want to be when I grow up. Constantly envisioning wildly different futures—like the summer blockbuster trailers at the movie theatre. One version—a bond-style action film, me as a Laura Croft type, exploring the world, deepening my internal landscape and chasing every desire. Scuba diving, tantra or archaeology? The other film, a Hallmark channel kind, with tiny shoes at the “Welcome” doormat, and me folding an endless pile of laundry with bags under my smiling eyes. Both feel foreign. Both terrify me.

Juxtaposing myself against friends doesn’t help either. Some are on their second child, others are blissfully single with plans to go back to school or to live abroad. I’m somewhere in the liminal in-between. Unsure of my choices and chances in this one— singular lifetime. We can bet on the lupine blooming each summer, yet we only bloom once? It’s just not fair.

I think some people need children to access their youth… In lives dictated by routine, financial stability or a job with benefits, I can see how it’d be appealing to make some Mini Me’s. I truly think some people need kids to remember how to play, paint or use their imagination. But truth be told, that is what I do all day. Why should I have to come in from recess for some other kid to have all the fun? It’s the end of summer and I’m slowly walking to the end of the diving board— not knowing if water or cement lay below.

*Not to mention the additional layers of socioeconomics, healthcare (lack thereof), cost of childcare, possible environmental collapse, family being thousands of miles away — blah, blah, blah.

But when I stop spiraling into future Anna’s problems, and peer backward instead, I’m at peace. If I were to suddenly die in a car crash, my ghost would meander the mountains with no aching regrets, or “What if’s.” These 30-some years have been a technicolor dream and I could not want for more. All credit due to my incredible parents, true-blue friends and the open lands of the West.

At every point in this life, I thought I knew it all. Until I eventually looked back and realized I was a fucking idiot. Maybe I’ll look back at this phase too and realize that my projections were wildly off. I guess life could always get better? New flowers may be just under the dirt, waiting to bloom.

Upcoming Events:

8/1-8/3 Kimball Arts Festival , Main Street Park City, UT. Come visit me at booth C66 right in front of the Patagonia store ;)

8/16 Salt Lake Farmers Market, Pioneer Park, SLC, UT.

**Mention that you subscribe to this Substack at any of my in-person markets this summer, and you get 20% off all prints!

Summer Core

Driving barefoot with the windows down

Eating dinner under a 9pm sunset

Reading (aka napping) by a pool

The smell of boat exhaust

Seatbelt burns

Grasshopper clicks

Waking to the sound of a lawnmower

Watermelon juice dripping all the way down your elbow

This Song

At the start of every summer movie, a corny radio voice saying “Hey (any American city) its gunna be a hoooot one!!”

The Final Word: Beautiful and relatable expressions from other languages

Weltschmerz

Have you ever read the news and upon seeing so many negative headlines, you felt a sense of doom and sadness for the world? In Germany, we have a word for this feeling: Weltschmerz. Consisting of the words Welt (world) and Schmerz (pain), the feeling describes exactly that — a pain you feel for the state of the world.

Saudade
A Portuguese word that signifies a deep, melancholic longing for something or someone absent, often with the knowledge that it may never return.

Tartle (Scotland) The act of hesitating while introducing someone because you've forgotten their name.

Kilig (Phillipines) The feeling of butterflies in your stomach, usually when something romantic takes place.

Waldeinsamkeit (Germany) Wald means forest, and einsamkeit means loneliness or solitude. It hints at both the feeling of being alone in the woods and also at a peaceful oneness with nature.

Utepils is a Norwegian word that literally translates to "outdoor lager." It is common within Scandinavian culture, and used among beer drinkers worldwide. Utepils has taken on several different interpretations throughout the generations. It typically refers to the act of sitting outside on a sunny day enjoying a beer. It may also refer to the first beer you drink outside on a warm, sunny day, and is the (great) name of a brewing company.

Jijivisha ( जिजीविषा ) The Hindi word refers to the strong, eternal desire to live and to continue living. It is usually used to talk about people who absolutely love life. It suggests intense emotions and the strong desire to live and thrive.

Stay cool hottie… And keep your head in the clouds.

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When recently asked this question, I realized they are one in the same.

The need for novelty.

Although there are a few things of which I’ll never tire (cinnamon rolls, Phoebe Bridgers Punisher album, and morning hugs from Garth) I get bored easily and deeply desire novelty. Whether it’s trying a new sport (rollerblading) challenging an old fear (karaoke) or escaping routine (self-employment), I’m always craving the unfamiliar.

Novelty is like taking a highlighter to your life experiences. It’s the reason why you can remember the tiniest details from a day you traveled in foreign country. And why you recall verbatim the quip from that bizarre fruitarian dude from the hostel a decade ago, but cannot remember what you ate for breakfast yesterday. Unfamiliar things stain your consciousness and challenge your habits and assumptions.

The upside to this affliction is finding myself in new technicolor experiences… My initial nervousness usually melts to curiosity when trying something for the first time. The downside, is that many the activities and motivations that once gave me purpose quickly to lose their sparkle. I simply cannot keep painting the same mountains, or be happy riding the same damn mountain bike trails. Luckily, I live in a place where (with a little bit more work) the possibilities and landscape keep unfolding… The American West is a boundless buffet red rock canyons, rocky spines and sagebrush wonderlands sure to keep my art and body entertained for a lifetime.

Even so— I find myself getting stuck in that everyday monotony that fosters “getting shit done.” Here I am again, clinging to efficiencies to make full use of the mandatory 30-minute drive from my house to anywhere… Keeping gas consumption low, productivity high and hustling to get back to the never-ending checklist. Efficiency is the death of serendipity.

But I am not alone…

In the world of outdoor sports, sensation seeking evolves in two ways… An increase in difficulty, or increase in risk —two things I don’t care to play with anymore.

BUT there are so many other ways to find that heart-skipping unfamiliarity in other facets of life… Public speaking, learning an instrument or going to a party where you don’t know a soul are just a few ways to push the boundaries of comfort without risking your life. The dance between fear and the unknown has the potential to expand yourself in ways that you never expected.

This realization was concretized after reading The Artists Way (a time-tested if not cliché book for inspiration seekers that I cannot recommend enough). After twelve weeks of taking myself on solo “artist dates,” I realized how important it make time to try new things. Whether it’s going to that bakery you’ve always wondered about, visiting the museum or finally signing up for a pole-dancing class, taking yourself on a date is always worth it.

You only get one first of anything.

So…what will be your next first?

Some recent *firsts* to celebrate…

*First June in a new home

.

*First time being stalked by a grouse

*First time mourning the death of said grouse. (If you’re a grouse, do not chase the neighbor dog. You will not win)

*First time getting accepted to Utah Arts Fest!!! *After five years of rejection.

*My first time having a big fancy art show (which is up till June 14th at Redflower Studios SLC!!!)

*First time up hiking up Bells Canyon! Stunning… The Wasatch doth provideth.

*And the first baby moose we’ve seen sippin’ from our pond. Miraculous!

Upcoming events:

6/11 Fisher Art Market - 6-9pm @ Fisher Brewing

6/19-22 UT Arts Fest - 5:00 PM to 11:00 PM on Thursday, and 12:00 PM to 11:00 PM - Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Come visit booth 155— right next to the food and drink vendors ;)

6/26 Plein Air Watercolor Class - 6-8 pm @ Guardsmans Pass

7/5 SLC Farmers Market - 8-2 pm @ Pioneer Park, SLC

7/13 Park Silly Market- 10-5pm @ Main Street Park City

June joys.

1. The sound of flowing water in the mountains.

2. Dancing uncontrollably to New Order’s song, Age of Consent.

3. That one tree on the popular hiking trail that so many people have grabbed— it now has a shiny patina of human touch.

4. Governor Cox themed pride attire.

5. Karaoke with friends.

6. Getting my CRV’s air conditioning fixed after almost two years of a windows-down-air-tunnel suffering on the interstate!!

7. FINALLY learning the difference between Cutleaf Balsamroot, Arrowleaf Balsamroot and Mules Ears!

   

8. The red sting on your bum that remains after glissading down high altitude snow patches.

Until next time…

Keep your head in the clouds.

“How to love this world. Share it.”

-Terry Tempest Williams, Erosion

Just curious. Are you…

Making time to bask in the fragrant glory of spring?

Are you…

Listening to the trickle of snowmelt and witnessing the sudden burst of green that seems to explode overnight?

Feeling the insatiable urge to walk barefoot on grass, escape to the desert, rollerblade, sniff flowers, sip iced coffee or lick an ice cream cone? SAME!

There is so much beauty bursting at the seams of this season, and so much to look forward to… Including but not limited to…

May Art Events:

5/16 - Stone, Sky, Salt— Solo Exhibition Opening Party, 6-9pm, @ Red Flower Studios

5/20- Desert Watercolor Class @ TF Brewing (SOLD OUT)

5/31- Fireweed Market — 3-8pm, @ HK Brewing

Subscriber Perks:

If you stick around— you’ll have early access to art class sign ups, new artwork, and subscriber-only sales and coupons!

*Subscriber Early Sign up: Plein Air Watercolor Class, June 26th, 6-8pm.

*May Etsy Coupon: Use code “SUBSTACK” for 20% off all prints.

Look on the bright side:

Among the madness…

Hummingbirds have started to buzz in the mountains, and Salt Lake City has found a way around Utah’ pride flag ban.

Best Of: May

Hiking Trails: Where to find balsamroot bliss in the foothills and beyond.

1. Terrace Hills Trailhead— My all time flower favorite is walking south on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. Take the bike-able main trail, or hoof it up the steep bits to feel like you’re swimming in the sky.

2. Little Mountain Summit— Either side of the road is lovely, but I prefer the west ridge. Past the pit toilet and radio towers lay a wide open hillscape of big Wasatch views, and not a lot of people! You can go all the way to the valley if you’re really needing to feel something.

Date: ‘Tis the season for SLC park hangs.

*Grab a Sushi Burrito and an iced tea from Tea Grotto and head to Liberty Park. Lounge in the grass, hop on a random slack line and pet all the dogs.

*Taking yourself on a date is just as important as with a partner :)

Book: Erosion: Essays of Undoing, Terry Tempest Williams

*A perfect read for this political moment.

Song: Hearthrob, by Indigo De Souza.

*Give me indie girl running through the streets main character anthem energy. *Knowing that she lost her studio and home during the Asheville floods, makes this track even more powerful.

Poem: Frequent Crier from Lyndsay Rush’s book, A Bit Much

Artist: Julia Buckwalter

*Spring rainstorms streak the desert sky like a paintbrush. Buckwalter’s dedication to the color of clouds is beyond impressive.

And fear not…

I will most definitely NOT be spamming your life with “Quick Tips,” and sponsored content. Neigh. You’ll be lucky if I get my life together enough to send you one email every two months.

*This is my vow, as a girlie who recently learned what “bcc,” meant.

And if you “just can’t even”— and want out. No worries, mate. Give me a shout, and I’ll unsubscribe ya.

The final say.

*At long last we can spell this incredible word!

Until next time…

Keep you head in in the clouds.

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