turn on the tap


In the last installation of the infrequent, spontaneous newsletter effort - I dug in a bit on my resistance to teaching classes over the past few years. The last was Mexico City, it was everything I wanted it to be, and then I just tapped out. What did I have to say? To share? To guide? That was any different or more of service than the dozens upon dozens of offerings my fine colleagues are putting out there, (in a helluva lot more organized and professional fashion than I)? I could barely stand listening to myself, let alone ask people to invest their time and energy listening to me.

Really setting up this **spoiler alert** new workshop offering strong, aren’t I?

Hang in there because I DON’T FEEL THAT WAY ANYMORE. Why? I’ll tell you everything, but I’ll say it all swinging around my studio with you at my side because I want you to come over and Go Deep. How we gonna get there, you ask? Because my soul-homie Bree is lighting the way.

Don’t you just freakin love this sass human already?

Don’t you just freakin love this sass human already?

Bree Melanson and I met a while back when she was co-leading a moon circle in SF organized by On Our Moon - whom I would like to give a shout out too, as I believe they are doing good, raw work in this world. Afterwards. when I walked up to introduce myself, we basically didn’t stop talking until dragged apart by an overdue parking meter and low blood sugar/h’anger. Bree had just moved back to her hometown of Monterey county after a decade+ in LA, I had just moved to Corralitos from Oakland so, for all intents and purposes - we were neighbors. Neighbors with, coincidentally, similar interests and vibe. Bree is a psychic medium and a channel, but the sort that wears cashmere and ostrich skin booties. I am florist that pulls tarot cards, finds ways to work piles of crystals into client's wedding decor, and doses all my freelancers with “High Vibe Elixir” before install days. I wish I could wear similar booties but would def dump disgusting, rotten flower water all over them on day 2. But still, we were picking up on what the other was putting down.


We made a lady-date that included bougie coffee, shrieking over boys, a long walk on Carmel River Beach, discussion regarding the stonecold validity of alien abduction, and the larger purpose of Universal consciousness when it applies to access to transcendental creativity. Fuck yes. We agreed that to collab on an offering would be a Very Good Thing.


On Saturday, April 27 - we would love ten of you to come over to mine so we can explore how to turn on the tap of your own, totally unique, magical flow of creativity. In my years as a creative, a woman, a human being walking on this planet - what I see again and again is the patterns we become tangled within that keeps us at arm’s length from our highest potential. To getting free and making all the dreams, the possibilities, the connections we were always intended to make. I started pulling at the loose threads on the fabric of my own story when I turned 27, and have been pulling and pulling ever since. Do I still get caught up? 100%, I got an ankle snagged as we speak. Do I work at shimmying to get free every day? Absolutely, it takes work. Observance. Awareness. Study. So let’s do it together.


There is a full description of what will go down HERE at the registration. We’re going to meditate, yes, but you don’t have to have a consistent practice prior. It’s just the vehicle for us to drop in and get in touch with that quiet, wild, unseen part of ourselves. We’re going to make flowers, yes, but you don’t have to be a florist to take this class. They’re just a medium for expression, something I’ll guide but the focus is just to MAKE ART for the freedom of it.


If you have questions or hesitations, send me a note. I hope you’ll join us.

p.s. I love you.

p.s. I love you.

Sun Airway

A few weeks ago Jill (left), Alethea (right) and I spun out to La Honda for a quick photoshoot that celebrated the immense talent and influence these two women have had on the design world.

I've told this story two-dozen times, but I love telling it because it's how I came to be sitting here and writing you. I found Jill and Alethea as Studio Choo on DesignSponge nearly a decade ago. I should have been writing purchase orders, and they were writing a column called "We Like it Wild." I was working as an assistant producer for an advertising shop in Richmond, VA. I wasn't quite sure what I was doing there, and was quite sure I wasn't very good at what I was doing, anyway.

I read their column like a dehydrated sea sponge; soaking up the washes of colors, coastal California scenery, the female-driven creativity. A Life that I wanted. I firmly decided from ergonomic seat of my polymer-riddled cubicle that I wanted to be a florist, and I wanted to work for Studio Choo. Two problems: 1. I didn't know how to work with flowers 2. I lived on the opposite side of the landmass. Actually three problems - these two women also had no idea who I was, and that I had already pledged my loyalty to them.

There's a number of years and living in-between that could go here - but there's sushi waiting and I gotta pack for Tahoe. Know this. I quit a stable, excellent job. I sold all my pointless sh*t. I left a really beautiful relationship. I broke the lease on my apartment. I told my mom and dad, my best friends and myself that I had no idea what I was going to do when I got there, but I was going. I packed my VW with a yoga mat, some snacks and some homesteading books. I drove across the country and landed in a isolated cabin in the middle of a deep dark dank redwood grove.

I drank a l o t of red wine with pensive Whitman-addled ardor. I smoked cigarettes before noon, drank cardamom coffee and journaled till my my hand turned into a claw. I met the mirror-image of the ambition of my Best Self. I farmed in Santa Cruz, and joined a powerful tribe of women. I moved to Barcelona on an infatuation, and moved back to CA because I needed to write a love letter. 

It took me over eight-weeks before I hit "send," and something close to eight-weeks later, I was hauling buckets of fermenting compost at Studio Choo. I never left. Jill and Alethea became my bosses, mentors and confidantes. They've set me straight, lifted me up and taught me everything I've asked to know. That beautiful embodiment of life and work that had captured me years ago has become my own habit. I'm doing what I love.

Studio Choo is entering a new era, and I'm no longer an integral part of it. If the pattern had stayed the same, I probably never would have left - but we all take the blades to our own cloth one way or another. This is simply the final yard they've smoothed over my shoulders.


Tamaryn released Cranekiss yesterday. It's really good. Her 2010 The Waves is really f*****g good, and it's blistering out of my Zenith at 10:51pm on a Saturday night. I'm on the sofa, alternating the tapping out of P&L spreadsheets with red wine and deep drags on a spliff of dried raspberry leaf.

This morning I ran a route I frequent when I'm trying to sort things out. The air was heavy with drizzly mist and this bizarre, energetic pressure from the Sturgeon Moon that would rise at approx 11:30am. I could get super Woo Woo and tick off the reasons you felt disconnected from your frontal lobe today, but I ain't your witch mama. Just know there was a reason for it. 

There are massive, blousey magnolias on the bottom of hill that marks my turn back home. A nearly blown-out bloom was on the lower branches, just in reach when I stretched to bring it's dinner-plate face down to mine. I breathed it in like one should drink, and just as I was about to let it float back, a honeybee droned in.

She clumsily flipped around in the pile of matchstick stamens caught in the cup of the lowest petal. She hummed her way to the center and out and again, landing on what must have looked like fresh powder, or the surface of milk. I watched her, sweating - slightly distracted by the notion I should be running, not standing and sweating and watching this bee. Never present enough.

And I wondered if this bee even took this dram of sweetness back to the hive. Did she just stay on this milk skin, drunk on perfume, and flip around on matchsticks of fertility all day. I kinda wished I were her.