As I was composing *"I Remember"*, it wasn't simply a song—it was a return to the parts of my past I still carry. Each verse drew me back to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the joy of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a song woven from memory. Not just laughter and light, but the full landscape: the tears and the breakthroughs. It holds the the loss of my brother.
This piece is a sacred echo that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I feel those presences again.
That's how I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, but because the silence inside me needed form. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a way to remember when memory itself hurts.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, you have to wrestle with weight. I learned to shape pain, to take what was fractured and make it visible. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
My creative journey isn't about perfection. It's about connection. I switch between forms like the tides move—inevitable, rhythmic, necessary. When I can't carve, I sing. When I can't sing, I write. And when all I can do is breathe and be still—I listen. That, too, is art.
There's a phrase that anchors me through it all:
**"Because of you, I am; and because of me, you are."**
That's what *"I Remember"* means to me. It's not only mine—it's a bridge forward.
When I sing it, I think of my brother's laughter. I think of the ancestors whose breath I carry.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So when you hear the song, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing my journey. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.
And that's what my art is always trying to do.
