While writing *"I Remember"*, it wasn't just music—it acted as a doorway to the people and places that shaped me. The lines and rhythm brought me closer to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the scars of those years.
*"I Remember"* is a kind of time travel. Not just laughter and light, but all of it: the tears and the breakthroughs. It captures the the love of my mother.
The melody is a thread that ties me to my past self. And in singing it, I bring them back into the now.
That's why I became an artist. Not through some career ambition, but because my hands needed to speak. Trauma, memory, identity—they needed space. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.
Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, you have to wrestle with weight. I learned to sculpt story, to take what was hidden and give it breath. Each sculpture is a way of saying: *I survived this, and I remember*.
This life as an artist isn't about perfection. It's about connection. Different mediums, same truth. 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 gift back.
When I sing it, I think of the quiet strength of my mother. I think of the ancestors whose breath I carry.
I remember.
And in doing so,
I live.
So if you ever listen, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing a carving in sound. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.
And that's what my art is always trying to do.
