You don’t have to be spiritual to be spiritual.
In fact, we’d be better off throwing out the word altogether.
One of the greatest ways to heal? Tell your story.
One of the finest ways to teach? Tell your story.
One of the best ways to release the stranglehold of memory? Tell your story.
There’s no one like you.
And there’s no one who can tell your story for you.
But you.
Speak. Write.
Begin.
Tell your story.
Wow! My book, Spirit, Flow: A Photographic Prayer has been translated into French!
It’s so amazingly gorgeous, it breaks my heart.
And, of course, I want to share it with you.
You can buy either the lovely English version…
. . . . . 
… or the delicious version in français.
Spirit, Flow is a sumptuous vision of the beauty that exists in this world. It is a prayer captured in color and offered back to the Divine artist, in thanks. My photos will shift you. Open your heart. Help you breathe. Help you remember.
Magic is everywhere. It is a prayer that surrounds us. Let Spirit, Flow open your heart and infuse your senses.
Esprit, Vole: Prière photographique est une somptueuse vision de la beauté de ce monde. C’est une prière haute en couleur offerte au Divin artiste, en remerciement. Mes photos vont vous bousculer. Ouvrir votre cœur. Vous aider à respirer. Et à vous souvenir. La magie est partout. C’est une prière qui nous entoure.
Either version of Spirit, Flow: A Photographic Prayer is only —> $.99! at Smashwords.
{Available ebook formats: Kindle, Epub, PDF, RTF, LRF, HTML/Java, Palm Doc, plain text}
Buy your copies at Smashwords — and thank you so much for supporting my beautiful art.
When I was a little girl with big glasses and broken teeth, the library was my comfort zone, a place where I could sink into soft chairs and read magazines for hours, or stack books up to my forehead and feel so, so smart (I didn’t know what “intellectual” meant at 7). It was also where I could hide. I still remember the click of the security bar as I entered, almost like laughter.
And when I was a secretly gay girl ensconced in my Christian college, suffering, suffering – the library was where I went to find my tribe. My tribe in words. I’d head down to the local branch in my college town, that liberal one on the edge of the river, and furtively glance around to make sure no one from school was there. One report to the Dean on my particular subject matter and I’d be hauled in for questioning. Remember, this was 1990 — the edge of the Internet age. I was at the mercy of librarian’s choice and a fragile sense of anonymity off-campus. More »
