Pieces of my story

I have always found power in stories, especially folklore. My love for them began over 30 years ago with my great-grandmother. She would sit me on her lap, reading stories that came to life through imaginative play. Birds and fairies would escape from the pages, and we had to gather them before they flew away for good. These games ignited a passion in me, one that was well-fed and nurtured by my upbringing in Appalachia.

Originally from Ogden, Utah, we moved to a small Appalachian town in Virginia when I was six. My mom had passed through on the way to a conference and returned with a feeling of certainty that she would live there one day. I like to think the land called to her. Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t—but I know the land here is old, loud, and powerful. It sings to me.

Moving here changed my life. Growing up in what locals called the “Mormon Holler” exposed me to stories and folk beliefs long forgotten in most places. I learned about early Mormon practices interwoven with folk magic—talismans, parchments, seer stones, and even women giving blessings. These stories resonated deeply with my soul. Over time, I became disillusioned with the modern doctrine and how it seemed to lack the significant modern revelation promised as I was growing up. It felt sterilized and lacking compared to these older, magical traditions, leaving me searching for more. In this area, people still used dowsing rods, foraged natural remedies, and practiced divination to predict the weather, death, or to personally hear from God. They had passed down knowledge on how to perform rituals and achieve specific results. I knew I wanted to participate in those traditions.

Though my family dismissed these beliefs as superstition, I held onto them tightly. As I grew, I noticed my family had superstitions of their own. My aunt was sensitive, often telling stories of ghosts she’d seen, a theme that would be repeated often to me by others. My grandma often counseled that hardship comes in threes as people experienced difficulties in life, something I’ve yet to disprove. She once told me how she caused a car’s tires to pop by pointing at it a certain way after the driver cut her off and forbade me from trying it. She also shared how my great-grandmother made soups and teas from local plants to help heal sickness when she was a kid. On special occasions, my grandmother passed down stories of resilience, bravery, and dedication from our pioneer ancestors. Though the details are hazy, I remember the magic of it all and longed to honor their wisdom and sacrifices.

The folklore of Appalachia echoed these stories. School librarians introduced us to the region’s folklore, and history teachers taught us mythology from around the world. Field trips to powwows were rich with culture and ritual, welcoming all to witness. From these experiences, I learned how to stay safe in the woods, protective colors for homes and porches to deter haints, and which amulets ward off evil. I bought my first rabbit’s foot at a book fair, stroking its dyed red fur for luck. These traditions—Appalachian folklore, Native American rituals, and mythology—merged in my mind, creating a rich tapestry of belief. They taught me that magic, protection, and reverence for our environment and creator transcended any one tradition.

Both Mormon teachings and folk beliefs fascinated me, especially the idea of connecting to a power source and having it connect back.

I slept with my scriptures under my pillow, hoping they would impart holiness and wisdom into my dreams. I prayed, searched, and sought connection. In Sunday School I was often told to pray for the spiritual gifts I wished to receive. I poured over the scriptures, listed each gift I found, circled the most important to me, and I prayed and prayed. Some came while others did not. I was undeterred as I heard local stories about people who could talk to the spirit of the forest, I decided it was time to experiment on my own. I figured that if the Holy Ghost could speak to us, spirit to spirit, so could the forest. I wandered the woods, seeking connection, truth, and wisdom, believing that if I looked hard enough, the forest would reveal itself. In the middle of all that green abundance, I listened, I sat with my beliefs, and I waited. Years passed with me continuing this process.

More than anything, I wanted a deeper connection to God and the environment. In middle school, a friend introduced me to Wicca during our arts and crafts block. She made handouts for me, which I smuggled home to study. It felt electrifying and taboo to pour over this forbidden and potentially wicked knowledge. I moved on to devour every book on witchcraft in the school library, though there were only three and mostly historical. Worried about upsetting God and my actions being apostate, I turned to mythology and folklore, seeking something that felt authentic but feeling safe with it so long as it was labeled “fiction.” I discovered The Folk Keeper by Franny Billingsley, which led me to Holly Black, Donna Jo Napoli, Garth Nix, and later, authors like Ursula K. LeGuin with The Tombs of Atuan, and writers like Mike Sirota, Maggie Nelson, Mary Oliver, Margo Lanagan, and Helen Oyeyemi. These stories sang to my soul.

My open passion for this type of learning was dampened in high school after a youth leader told me that our God was a jealous God and that I should focus more on the Bible than my stories. I still feel the shame that washed over me as her words sank in. Desperate to deepen my connection to God, I started searching for stories in the Bible that spoke to me—stories of crows feeding prophets, the miracles of Moses, and studying the various passages on rituals and holy relics. I saw many overlaps in symbols and began to see God in all of them. It took me years to understand that the line between witchcraft or apostasy and the priesthood was simply about who was practicing, who was allowed to practice, and what was deemed appropriate by those in power. In the meantime, I tried my best to suppress my interests and focus on being a good Christian, though my efforts were for naught.

I returned to Ogden, Utah, for college, unintentionally bringing my story full circle. There, I continued learning about Mormon history. My roommate introduced me to the Deseret Alphabet, and I was thrilled by the possibilities it represented. I studied the gospel and tried to be disciplined and good in this land of my ancestors. Out there, I noticed the land felt different—it spoke of potential, adventure, and newness. I hoped that would sink into me and that I could be transformed there into something better, into something more obedient. I lived there for eight years, deepening my commitment to the church and adhering to the rules.

After my divorce, I returned to the land that sang in my blood. I wanted to raise my children among the trees where the earth called loudest to me. Now, I teach them to hear it for themselves. Together, we learn the names and uses of plants, living in harmony with our environment. It took years, but I finally felt and heard the voice of the forest.

A friend once said he’d always seen me as a “perceptive witch-type with a non-witchy religion.” He wasn’t wrong. As I grew older, I hoped the church’s doctrines and practices would deepen for me, but instead, I was drawn time and again to the symbols and rituals of early Mormonism, rituals that became more and more blasphemous as the Church worked to modernize their appearance. My love lay in the exploration, autonomy, and power these elements seemed to hold. Eventually, I gave myself permission to follow my heart and to participate spiritually how I felt drawn to.

My soul has always yearned for ritual, for a physical manifestation of spiritual desire and dedication. Even before I recognized this duality within me, I began creating art that merged these sides of me—symbolism from folklore, Mormon history, my ancestral heritage, and my Appalachian roots. I weave together art, history, and mythology, creating something wholly mine. Inspired by Brian Froud, I see my art as a form of channeling—channeling feelings, the Divine, stories around me, and those untold.

Through my art, I tell stories to the viewer—stories I’ve felt and stories that are my own. Most could be considered a series of self-portraits as my work is an exercise in reaching out to see what reaches back. Each of my pieces builds on the others, giving depth to the concepts I bring to life from dreams, moments in life, and my subconscious. They capture the push and pull between the two sides of myself that I’ve tried to reconcile throughout my life. My art bridges the gap between fine art and illustration, much like Kara Walker’s work, with strong narratives and symbols scavenged from various pieces of my life.

I now create boldly, both narratively, as I’ve begun writing my own stories, and artistically, following Claudia Bushman’s advice to create my own scripture. My work is meant to live on its own, imbued with energy and voice long after I’ve completed it. Each piece represents my search for connection and the results of those requests finally being answered.