Staircase Falls, Yosemite National Park, July 2017

Photo by Tim Giller

One never knows where their words may end up flowing to. How might they be picked up, carried crosswise, repurposed, nurtured, especially if rendered with love. Language as raw material thoughtfully worked. As a sculptor might find forms are guided by the composition of stone, where it resists or where it relents. Artist as a conduit of what was always alive in the material, symbiotically releasing a new vision long held at bay.

As a semi-professional storyteller, I might stand by a river or before a campfire, having coerced an audience, receptive and attentive, putting forth esoteric ramblings, metaphors and analogies woven throughout. Ideas suggested as stepping stones to navigate across flowing water. Thoughts carried as wisps of pine wood smoke rising up into the canopy and beyond. Like any offering set free these could be carried or abandoned, repurposed, misplaced, forgotten. You rarely know if a story put out in the world has been cherished or forsaken.

Water finds a way, a fall line. We call it a path of least resistance but we often see its power. We are drawn to a roaring cascade of water leaping freely from high walls. Some seek untamed whitewater, submit to its whims. It seems that more often water makes more subtle accommodation to the circumstances, perhaps surprised to find itself flowing in a beautiful and unexpected direction. Downstream effects might ripple outward and from where we stand we might never see the tiny wave cresting on some sandy shore at the far end of the watershed.