Living in the bush in my twenties and thirties, I stumbled upon a creative writing course at the local community college. Perhaps I was desperately in need of more breathing room while raising my two sons in a clearing carved out of the land.  Perhaps it was to satisfy a deeper yearning I had not acknowledged. What I do remember as I began my first tenuous steps in studying the craft was gulping in fresh pockets of air; I was alive in my body in an entirely new way.

Since that launching thirty years ago, courses and workshops continue to form a constellation map.  At present, Betsy Warland guides me with a deep luminosity. Others, like my first teacher Leslie Barnwell who remains living in the northern wilderness, linger as bright lights. All have informed my path.

While deeply appreciative of my many teachers, art has a life of its own. I follow along. The unconscious sometimes called the muse, leads me in the form of poetry, creative nonfiction, or collage. If I did not head her direction, I would be tripping in the dark.  

I learn to listen. What does the page want to say?