Letters From a Lover
As this project comes to a close - I am overing a special bundle for the holiday season. After they are sold these story lines will be archived and Letters From a Lover will be gone.
A snail mail subscription that takes you on a fantastical journey of self-love, development and romance.
Each letter comes with at least two pages of poetic dialogue and an immersive sketch or drawing, all wrapped and sealed with wax.
A Love Like Magic
The “Love like Magic” story is written from the perspective of your Higher Self - if your higher self were a powerful faery set out to explore under documented regions of your magical world. Inside each letter is a reminder and a demand to love yourself fervently and without question.
You can find the romance here— Quote Source
I Love You Platonically
The I love you Platonically poem series is a collection of work designed to remind you that life is in bloom. That it is built and ready and waiting for you to come live it.
This series of letters is less about fantasy and romance and more about loving yourself well by creating a good mind to live in. If you’re looking to share a letter adventure with someone you love platonically - this one is perfect for them. And if you are looking for a more wholesome self- love ritual, this story is exactly what you need.
Death Doula for Art
My mother is a bone woman. She connects the dying with the joy of change - with the living we so often avoid until our time is closing in. She feeds them food that reminds them of the simple pleasure of taste, paints their nails because feeling beautiful and tended to is worth the effort, she takes them to the movies and sits with them in their worries. She allows them moments of life that we are taught to deny ourselves. And then when the time comes she witnesses the wind passing through a home with one less soul. She holds the grieving and helps carry the weight of love - a reminder of well tended attachment and chosen family.
Doula means women who serve. And I wonder how I might Serve the Death of my Art.
Death Doula for art as you will.
Maybe I’ll wrap it in cotton and hemp and paper - as my mom would wrap her people in soft blankets and socks and sweaters.
Maybe I’ll tell the world that I loved something into existence and now it’s on its last leg.
Maybe I’ll take extra moments - to appreciate without judgment. Judgment only matters if there’s time left to change and eventually we all run out of that.
Maybe I’ll share it one last time with those who love it as much as I do.
A celebration of life.
A wake.
A closing sale.
I wrote 24 letters this year and mailed them all over the country.
They were letters to friends and lovers. Love letters.
A reminder that life is meant to feel sweetly forehead kissed.
There are a limited amount of story bundles left and once they are gone - well they’re gone.
Join The
News letter
To the love that sustains me,
I ache to know of your world. To know what your mind spins and binds into reality. What the people of your world spend their time creating. I yearn to know of your heart. Of how it swells and stutters through the passing of your day. Of whom or what may cause such inhalation or absence in your chest. I have long hours on my hands these days. We are making our way through the channel and though it is a beautiful journey, it is decidedly lacking your warmth. Will you take the time to write to me? To ponder these questions? It would delight me beyond words, if I knew you were spending your days contemplating such beautiful quandaries.
As for me, I am sitting on the deck as I write this and the spray of salt and musk fills the air. That is where my body resided but what in truth is taking up my time is you. I am simply dreaming of your presence again darling. Of your welcoming arms. Of the way your smile cracks open tombs of hearts into living things once again. Of your wisdom, and how you patiently teach it. Of your lips, and how soft they feel pressed to mine. I am sitting on the deck of this wild machine, making my way to a land long unseen, and yet my eyes only search for you. I search for you in the iridescence of the clouds. Of the wide sweeping tunnels of trees. In the music of nature herself.
Alas, I am not there with you. And you are on a journey of your own. One filled with salt and musk of a different sort. It is a blessing to miss someone so. It is a sensational torture to know the ache of your absence for I know our reunion will be a satisfying one. Though I am hungry today, I know that I will be filled once again. And I hope you know that too. That in all the places you ache for filling, that you will be filled. That the yearning and longing and waiting is a blessing, because you know how thoroughly their arrival will satisfy you…
-and excerpt from a letter