I learned to sing from my big sisters. They knew all the lyrics to the pop songs of the day—this was the 1950s—and we sang them together. I still love to sing. If I were to be who I really am, I would be singing out loud, every day. Singing is a like a mysterious flow coming through the body from some great skyland. 

It’s also why I love painting. Painting is not an expression of the little me but is a way to disappear into the big, beautiful river of aliveness. My art is made with me but not by me. It is a surprise every time. Who can say where such a gift comes from?