I wonder how, among the Fremont, mothers and daughters shared their world. Did they walk side by side along the lake edge? What stories did they tell while weaving strips of bulrush into baskets? How did daughters bury their mothers and exercise their grief? What were the secret rituals of women? I feel certain they must have been tied to birds.

My voice is born repeatedly in the fields of uncertainty.

Sometimes you have to disclaim your country and inhabit another before you can return to your own.

Agitation gives birth to creation.

I think that water is a tremendous organizing principle.

Each voice is distinct and has something to say. Each voice deserves to be heard. But it requires the act of listening.

I wonder how it is we have come to this place in our society where art and nature are spoke in terms of what is optional, the pastime and concern of the elite?