—a flow, connected, not a beginning nor an end. Branches and twigs and rivulets of inner work and play, veins of relationships, and the sheer delight of a freshly birthed poppy shine on the canvas, curving, splashing, and resting in open silence. The outer forms of inspiration are infinite, from the light bursting through a curtain to flowers and fallen petals, circles upon circles on the kitchen table, a sudden beam of sun on a gray day, mists and fields, and a handful of leftover embroidery thread. The inner world, completely undivided from the apparent outer world, is a boundless spacious source showing up in joyfully unpredictable expressions.