War is violent. War is ugly.
It should come with a warning label. Engaging in this activity will cause bodily harm. It will affect your mental equilibrium. Exercise extreme caution around children. Use sparingly and only as a last measure. Overdose will cause death.

At 15 years old my young mind was layered with the silence that death brings. Never again would I hear my brother’s footsteps entering our home, or enjoy listening to music with him and our mother. Gone was his intuitive voice of reason and his arms to shelter me. His spiritual essence was lost in a place called Vietnam. The first televised war. But the war had now infused my safe haven, running parallel with the 6 pm news. Since that November day in 1968, my brother’s death has been the background shadow of my life.

Giving viability to what George left behind is the music I now listen to with him. It opens a wide spectrum of feelings. It is an unusual collaboration between an artist after death and his designer sister. This is a testimonial to what he left behind and liberation for me.

These bold, bright, fearless scarves capturing the heart of his work titled, Manuscript Written a Red Moon. My hope is they will harness joy for all who wear them, my spiritual offering to the global society.

There is something about little old ladies. We all have known at least one who is rooted in our heart. She helps us to become familiar with ourselves; offering comfort food when we didn't know of our own hunger. Her purposeful independence, unmistakable wit and her well-worn black walking stick make her appear bold and delicate at the same time. She is rich in human experience with her arms stretched; offering the richness of the past in conversation.

Wearing her sacred objects reserved only for special occasions. As children her refinements captured our curiosity.These sculptures of pins, earrings, necklaces and bracelets, are combined as monuments to the independent thinkers who enjoyed a bit of regal flourish.

Now with the personal grey clouds taking center stage, we are reminded of the strand of pearls around her neck and the shimmering brooch pinned to her coat’s lapel; both potent metaphors for the cultural treasure that she processes in life.

There comes a time to each one of us when circumstance forces us to question the significance of life. We immerse ourselves in an agonizing self-debate with such depth that our mental equilibrium becomes suspect.

My delicious strategy of adjustment from life's twists and turns is with a needle and thread. In concert they help to settle my troubled mind. I once again hear silence with a new level of joyful awareness and I tell the world, "quiet please", life in session.