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Anyone on this site As I was composing *"I Remember"*, it wasn't simply a song—it was a return to memories buried in time. Each verse drew me back to old friends, long gone, and to the weight of those years. *"I Remember"* is a kind of time travel. Not just the good times, but all of it: the chaos and the calm. It captures the the love of my mother. That song is a sacred echo that ties me to my roots. And in singing it, I feel those presences again. That's how I became an artist. Not chasing prestige, but because I had to. Trauma, memory, identity—they needed space. And that's what sculpture became: a conversation with the past. Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike a fleeting moment, you have to wrestle with weight. I learned to carve memory, 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. 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 just a song—it's a whisper to those who walked before. When I sing it, I think of the way my people carried me. I think of my daughter, my friends, the land. I remember. And in doing so, I live. When the chords rise and fall, 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. Peace | 