Ghost Dancer Studio

After traveling between Los Angeles, New York, Oakland and the occasional Big Sur for 5 years, I finally ended up in West Marin California. Unexpectedly, surprisingly and right before my eyes, I was home. West Marin or Marin County rather had always been this unexperienced land close to the bay that always intrigued me without much follow through. When friends years ago began settling into long term relationships and seeking respite to cultivate a homestead for the soon to come blossom of a little family, Marin began to enter my periphery. Marin had this allure, a gentle pause between Haight Ashbury, Google and the folkway of those who had escaped the city life. Marin was the terrain of Alan Watts and the hideaway of the Grateful Dead.  In my mind, it was the territory of the wild having been tamed and the  acid dropping, spiritually seeking community capitalizing on their affluent births. Low and behold, much of what I found confirmed my beliefs. West Marin proved to be this wild terrain and extreme between the progressive affluent and the old time established families who had farmed the food for the city restaurants for ions. A beautiful folk pastiche harmonized with a prevalent buddhist OM. A slightly different tune than the up and ready to riot beat of Berkeley. My ex boyfriend magically came across this home in a craigslist ad when I had erupted in unhappiness due to communal living with three very kind ( adamantly reinforced )  40 year old men. In the act of appeasement, he ventured off into the brooding winter woods of West Marin to quell the restlessness of Oakland that quaked my waking being.  This craigslist ad he pursued didn't offer any images so naturally, I kindly guided him to avoid wasting time. Ironically, this was the spot that I had been manifesting for years, so close to my home and so far from any expectations I had. A hand built home constructed in the early 1980's with the quintessential hexagonal and octagonal windows, hardwood floors, 85% windowed home with very little wall space, a balcony in the trees and a breakfast nook that could turn any night owl into a 7 am waker. Dream home in all capacities. There was even a bath-tub, an absolute necessity for this water baby.  A home is a home because of the energy that resides within and it took me quite sometime to really meditate on the the visual representation of the energy to be shared direct from my heart. The adoration and care for such a space was palpable by all those who came for tea, came for a glass of wine on the balcony at sunset or the way-fairing stranger who wanted a little loft sleeping space. This home truly meant the world to my heart and with the wanderlust at east, it was easy to infuse and effuse a world of woven beauty. My gratitude is still ineffable for the two kind souls that built this home with foraged lumber and humble sweat beneath a glorious summer breeze.  Below are images a friend captured during a rain dance this past spring. This little studio became my home where my music swelled, the summer winds would sweep spider webs in through the windows and the cedar smoke billowed across all the goods to come through my spirit in a grateful manner.  Many an early rises for this night owl and many more  melodic evenings weaving with the crickets and gales of hot summer love. 

 

 

All images by my talented friend Ben Renschen. 

All images by my talented friend Ben Renschen.