She has graciously granted me permission to enlighten you with her talents. I have gone through hundreds of her photos and pulled those that made me want to look twice - be it the color, the angle, the texture, or simply an emotion it evoked. Here are just a few to wet your taste buds with, more to come...
I was raised by the song
Of the murmuring grove
And loving I learned
Those who are in a frenzy utter
many wonderful things,
which a little later,
when their frenzy has abated,
they themselves do not really
as if they had not spoken them,
but God had sounded through
them as though through trumpets.
I have nothing to say
and I am saying it
and that is poetry
Our theories and ideas are born from our suffering.
Above all, don't wobble.
Man models himself on the Earth;
The Earth models itself on Heaven;
Heaven models itself on the Way;
And the Way models itself on that which is so on its own.
Nothing happens for the first time.
the fragrance of the grass
speaks to me . . .
and my heart soars
The wheel outside the door is just the moon.
Those objects hanging from the eves,
just Autumn clouds.
Liang Li (A.D. 850)
The smallest ingredient
is the most powerful,
the slightest act
the most potent.
People must have puddings
I don't know what Nature is: I sing it.
I live on a hilltop
In a solitary whitewashed cabin.
And that's my definition.
I think it was from the animals
that St. Francis learned
it is possible to cast yourself
on the earth's good mercy and live.
No matter how much suffering afflicts us,
we can always find a modicum of pleasure,
and that is sufficient.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, . . . and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms . . . by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimmed The noontide sun . . .
SHAKESPEARE, The Tempest
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
The world being illusive, one must be deluded
in some way if one is to triumph in it.
For we are the stars. For we sing.
For we sing with our light.
For we are birds made of fire.
For we spread our wings over the sky.
Our light is a voice.
We cut a road for the soul
for its journey through death.
Passamaquoddy Indian poem
Eden is that old-fashioned House
We dwell in every day
Without suspecting our abode
Until we drive away.
She lives in the U.S. and in England with her husband
and her three sons.