We begin life open and vulnerable, susceptible to what is there. A doorway is opened into a living legacy. This is the beginning and the background of anyone's life. A birthright is offered and received, family stories become legends. The story of a cherished child is treasured, preserved, carried forward and added to with each telling. The secrets whispered onward from one generation to the next, from grandmother, to mother, to daughter, the tale is told and embraced. One layer on top of the next, we each become a repository of history. Feeling the ancient anonymous intimacy of being one stone in a sea of millions of other stones, each carrying the potential to be pressed into precious. I fill my pockets with evolution and transformation. At home I paint from my memory of lineage, layers and the lingering questions. Watching paint bleed into paper, the color a fluid softening of the lines of history, a history I have inherited, a history I leave behind and carry forward into the fading circles of a pebble toss, falling, floating, and letting go. Can I empty my pockets and accept the legacy of my own voice, small as it is, the stones carrying a quiet that lets my mind and heart grow into itself?