Fireweed

In the fire-scarred backwoods of Idaho, we gathered not to grieve the past, but to honor what survived it.

Fireweed was created as a ceremonial send-off for a deeply personal project: a collection of heirloom chalices made for survivors of California’s devastating Camp Fire. Each survivor had sent me ashes from their lost homes—fragments of a life before. I transformed these ashes into glaze, carefully testing and developing each one until the ash could sing in ceramic. No two were alike. Some had a shimmer of color, others a soft textured finish. Each was distinct, as individual as the stories they carried.

The forms themselves featured sgraffito (carved) fireweed—the first flower to grow after fire—etched delicately into their surfaces. A whisper of gold luster crowned each vessel, a subtle nod to their hidden value. These chalices were made not to replace what was lost, but to offer a thread of comfort through grief and transition—objects to hold onto, and pass forward as new heirlooms.

But before I could send them, I needed to fill them with something more: the care and blessings of strangers.

So I returned to one of my favorite forms of kind mischief—hiding painted stones in wild places, each marked with a quiet invitation. Curious souls who found them made their way to me, gathering among meadows reborn from fire. There, near the charred pines of the Pioneer Creek Fire—the largest wildfire in the nation just a few years prior—we spoke of regeneration, resilience, and quiet strength.

Together we talked about our connections to fireweed, one of the first plants to grow in a burned area, and what it symbolized. We harvested fireweed blossoms, their vibrant pink petals glowing in the morning light. These blooms would be dried and transformed into herbal preparations tucked alongside each chalice as offerings of bodily and spiritual nourishment.

We moved gently, our hands full of blossoms and our hearts full of care. We held silence for the lives changed by fire. We gave thanks for the land’s quiet resilience. And in those hours, a new story was written—not just of loss, but of what can bloom after it.

Nyctophilia

There is a strange and tender beauty that lives in the dark. Not the kind of darkness that hides danger, but the kind that invites slowness, intimacy, and deep listening. Nyctophilia was a ceremonial exploration of that quiet richness, held on the eve of a new moon inside a private home in Eugene, Oregon.

The idea first took root when I awoke after a nap in the mossy woods of Oregon to find myself utterly alone in pitch blackness. At first, panic surged as I stumbled through the brambles. But when I stopped resisting and allowed my hands to guide me gently forward, the forest transformed. Every branch became a conversation. Every shift of air was a story. I found my way out not by sight, but by trust.

That same spirit shaped the gathering. Guests were invited through an unusual gesture: by asking permission to touch a particularly soft sweater worn by a co-conspirator. Those who did demonstrated sensitivity, curiosity, and respect—essential traits for the night to come.

We began with blindfolded movement, led by a wonderful dance instructor. Then, in darkness, we shared a meal—each dish served in one of the tactile bowls I had created just for the event, inspired by Oregon’s textures: mussel shells, veined leaves, sandy wave patterns. The guests explored their food by touch, scent, and intuition alone, sharing their observations with one another. They also were each given a completely unique bowl for each of 3 courses and had the opportunity to try to guess what they were holding. 

When the lights were gently raised, the guests were brought into another space lit only by black candles and the room was filled with chuckles as they finally saw what had nourished them. Dessert came as one last hidden gift: chocolate truffles tucked under each textured bowl, waiting to be found. Could the guests guess which ones they had held? 

Nyctophilia was a quiet rebellion against our constant need to see and label. It was a space where slowness became sacred, and the unknown was not feared—but embraced.

Rose Medicine

The best way to understand a plant’s gift is to experience it with all your senses. Rose Medicine was a gentle, immersive gathering inspired by the self-love and mindfulness that wild roses so generously offer.

To invite guests, I tied pink ribbons with invitations printed on them to fresh-cut roses and left them in bustling public places—college campuses during finals week, downtown business corridors—beneath a sign that read: “Feeling stressed? Take time to smell a rose.” Other guests were selected through heartfelt reflections on why they needed a pause from the pace of everyday life.

We gathered in a quiet glade blooming with wild roses and anchored by towering, hand-sculpted roses I had created—larger-than-life blossoms that blurred the line between reality and fairy tale. Each guest was served on a porcelain plate I had sculpted to resemble rose petals, their pinks and peaches gently marbled in the clay itself, their soft satin finish inviting touch as much as taste.

Through a carefully-created ceremonial event, guests were able to do a rose petal tea tasting and talk about their first impressions of rose medicine. Then, we did a tasting of 5 rose-filled treats (both sweet and savory) to further explore the range of roses in culinary applications. Guests were then invited to forage wild rose petals and make their own rose salt and rose sugar to take home as mementos of the occasion, grounding the beauty of the experience in their everyday lives. We ended in stillness, with a meditation on the rose’s teachings—its softness and strength, its fragrance and thorns. My hope was that each guest would carry that quiet joy with them long after the petals had fallen.

Geode

To the untrained eye, a geode is just a rock—dusty, lumpy, ordinary. But those who dare to crack them open are rewarded with the surprise of crystalline brilliance. That was the inspiration behind this subterranean celebration of hidden wonders and secret sparkles.

During a local music festival, ceramic geodes were stealthily tucked into the coat pockets of strangers—an unexpected invitation waiting to be discovered. Those adventurous enough to break theirs open found inside a note and a map, directing them to a cow field in the middle of nowhere. There, a metal ladder descended into darkness—into the lava-carved depths of the Kuna Caves, an unexpected wonder!

Guests made the long climb down, arriving in a cavern transformed. They were welcomed with geode-shaped appetizers and root vegetables wrapped in herbs and clay, roasted until fragrant and then smashed open with hammers—delightfully messy and immensely satisfying. Colorful sauces awaited like hidden veins of flavor. Dessert brought edible geodes glinting with sugar crystals, nestled among fresh fruit on rocky platters.

As the meal wound down, guests were handed headlamps and invited to explore deeper into the tunnels. There, more treasures glinted in the dark: handmade glass crystal sculptures, each one reflecting the thrill of discovery.

Geode was an ode to the underground, the unexpected, and the joy of breaking things open—only to find they hold more beauty than you imagined.

Blue Pool

Did you know most languages develop a word for “blue” last? That’s because most of the blues that surround us—the sky, the sea—can’t be held in your hands. Unlike red berries or yellow ochre, blue rarely exists in a form we can touch. It’s a color of distance, of atmosphere, of mystery. That’s what makes it so magical when we do find it: the cracked shell of a robin’s egg, the shimmer of a butterfly’s wing, the glint of a bluebird in flight.

This event was a celebration of that elusive magic.

On Mother’s Day, I hiked 50 pounds of handmade glass and ceramic artwork into the Oregon wilderness to one of the Pacific Northwest’s most astounding hidden wonders: the Tamolitch Blue Pool. You walk around a mossy bend and there it is—a deep, sapphire basin glowing with an impossible brightness. Its vivid hue doesn’t come from pigment, but from light itself—depth and clarity bending wavelengths into something startling and rare.

Instead of RSVPs, I hid large blue eggs along the trail. Hikers who found them were invited to a surprise cliffside picnic overlooking the water, where they dined on naturally blue foods: dark blueberry cake, vivid blue iced tea, all surrounded by artwork inspired by the rarest blues of the Northwest: the tiny blue butterflies that live in the mountains, and the shimmer of blue birds’ wings.

It was a celebration of wonder in its purest form—a gift of color, sky, and spring, offered to those willing to look closely.

Lady Fern’s Soiree

Imagine walking through the forest and spotting something strange: a single purple fern growing in a patch of green. You step closer, curious—and that’s when you see it: a handwritten invitation to a secret dinner party.

It sounds like a fairytale, but for a few lucky wanderers near Eugene, Oregon, it was real. On May Day, they joined Lady Fern herself for a twilight feast beneath sparkling crystallized seedpods, celebrating the return of spring with a menu of all-purple foods, each dish flavored by the forest around them.

This gathering was part botanical homage, part edible spell—a gentle disruption of the everyday. Created as a gift for the curious, it asked nothing in return but wonder.

Moss Gazing

This magical gathering was a Pacific Northwest take on the Japanese tradition of “Hanami,” tree-blossom observing. Instead of reminding us of the frailty of life through ethereal blossoms, moss reminds us of the constancy of life through ancient plants. Mosses were the first plants to emerge from the ocean and conquer the land. They range in size drastically and can be found in almost every ecosystem on earth. They have been here far longer than humans have existed.  

So when life gets overwhelming and my problems seem larger than myself, I escape into the woods and practice the art of moss-gazing. That’s what I invited my guests to do with me this magical night- to make a point to notice the minute and the tiny; the dramatic landscapes found within the soft carpet of moss underfoot and the diversity of flavors hidden under a rotten log. Each dish was a tribute to the overlooked—the textures and flavors of the forest floor, reimagined through the alchemy of food and flame, glass and fire. Edible landscapes emerged from decomposed leaves, candied fungi, and wild herbs, nestled in vessels that shimmered with glass lichen and moss made of stars. Everything they dined on (and dined out of) was inspired by the delicate wonders of the forest floor, transformed through the poetry of manipulated ingredients and manipulated silica.

We did not dine at ground level, but we dined close to it—in spirit and in sensation. That night, guests gathered at a long table blanketed in living moss, beneath an installation of draped greenery echoing the misty rainforests around us for a completely immersive experience. Moss Gazing was a meditation on resilience, wonder, and the power of noticing. Just remember, if you’re having trouble seeing the big picture, just look closer. 

Ember

Held in the smoldering aftermath of one of the year’s largest wildfires, Ember was a ceremonial tea party rooted in transformation. Guests open to a vulnerable conversation discovered their invitations tucked into self-help books in local libraries and bookstores, then followed directions from a complete stranger to arrive—an hour outside of town—in the middle of a ghostly, burned forest.

There, among the charred trees of the Pioneer Fire near Lowman, Idaho, they gathered for tea in handmade cups that resembled blackened wood, their glowing orange interiors flickering like the last sparks of a fire. Each course carried the theme: black sesame mochi with bright citrus centers, a cake that looked like a charred log baked with black cocoa and filled with a luscious rosehip and whisky filling, all colored naturally in ash tones.

But Ember was more than aesthetic—it was a ritual of choice. Embers represent what still lives beneath the surface. Each guest was invited to consider what they were ready to rekindle, and what they were prepared to let go. Together, we explored our embers together, choosing whether to bury and release them, or whether to fan them back into flame. We shared tea, reflection, and an afternoon of quiet reckoning in a landscape stripped bare—and ready for rebirth.

Shipwreck

Many people have walked a shoreline hoping to discover a message in a bottle. Few ever do. But on one winter afternoon on the beaches of Camano Island, a handful of lucky wanderers found just that: barnacle-encrusted bottles wedged into driftwood and hidden above the high-tide line in popular beachcombing locations, each bottle containing a hand-illustrated letter inviting them to a secret gathering. Those who accepted the invitation soon found themselves transported into the ghostly romance of oceanic ruins and salt-soaked mystery.

Held in a weathered seaside shack, the experience began as guests entered a space transformed: hand-sculpted porcelain vessels encrusted with barnacles and glazed in nacreous shimmer waited for them inside shipwrecked boat serving trays that floated above the floor like remnants of a lost world. The guiding question of the afternoon was simple but strange: What would a shipwreck taste like?

Each course answered in metaphor and flavor. There was something aged or fermented—ingredients that had deepened over time, that could have been discovered in an ancient shipwreck, long sunk. There was something foraged—gathered with care from land or tidepool. And there was something new and daring—flavors pulled from the ocean's lesser-known offerings.Together they were a gastronomic odyssey below the waves.. It was a feast composed in layers of time, salt, and memory—sunken but alive, decayed but glowing.

This was a late afternoon party for the curious and the bold, the kind of people who pay attention to messages in bottles.