The Flow of Something Older

There are days when I sit at my bench, tools scattered like offerings, and something flows through me so effortlessly it feels like magic. A design takes shape, a connection clicks into place, and I think—how did I do that? My ego wants to claim it. Wants to say, _“Look what I made.”_

But I know better.

I know that my hands were used, but the vision came from somewhere else. Somewhere older. Somewhere deeper.

Cherokee Women and the Memory in My Blood

When I trace that feeling back, I arrive at the women of my lineage. Cherokee women, whose power and esteem within their communities was not just symbolic—it was structural. They held land, led families, and made decisions that shaped the rhythm of life. They were matriarchs, medicine keepers, artists, and warriors of spirit. Their voices weren’t just heard—they were honored.

I carry their blood. And I believe I carry their memory.

Not in the way history books record, but in the way bone remembers. In the way instinct rises when I’m creating something that feels sacred. In the way I know, without knowing, how to make beauty from rawness.

“Art has always been the vessel used by our people to solidify our unique vision of the world.”

—Joshua Adams, Cherokee artist and curator

This truth sits at the center of my creative life. I don’t just make—I remember. I channel. I honor.

The Hands That Remember

There’s a kind of spiritual muscle memory in my work. It’s why I can sit down with a piece of turquoise and feel exactly where it wants to go. Why I can imagine a design that feels like it’s already existed, waiting for me to uncover it.

I don’t take credit for that. Not fully.

Because I know that I’m not the source—I’m the vessel. And when I forget, when I start to believe I’m the genius behind it all, I look at my hands. They’re just hands. But they’ve been guided by things I can’t see. By women I’ll never meet, but who live in me. By spirits who whisper through silver and stone.

This is not just creativity. It’s communion.

She Moves Through Me Still

My mother was so beautiful it felt like the earth had carved her from its own longing. She’s been gone for over thirty years, and still—my heart aches like it happened yesterday. I still remember her scent. Natural. Warm. Like cedar and wind and something I can’t name but still feel.

A Photo of My Mother

“She carries the land in her gaze. I carry her in my hands.”
- me

Closing Invitation

So when you wear one of my pieces, know that it’s not just a design. It’s a conversation between generations. It’s a story told in metal and memory. It’s a prayer, shaped by hands—but spoken by spirits.