Peace01404dnit

As I was composing “I Remember”, it wasn't just music—it became a map to the people and places that shaped me. Every word drew me back to the forest-farm of my childhood, and to the weight of those years.

“I Remember” is a kind of time travel. Not just laughter and light, but the full landscape: the tears and the breakthroughs. It holds the early fire.

This piece is a sacred echo that ties me to my roots. And in singing it, I feel those presences again.

That's why I became an artist. Not as a calculated choice, but because I had to. Healing required expression. And that's what sculpture became: a still, silent prayer.

Sculpture taught me patience. Unlike words, form stays. I learned to shape pain, to take what was buried and make it visible. Each sculpture is a way of saying: I survived this, and I remember.

The way I live now isn't about perfection. It's about connection. Different mediums, same truth. 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 only mine—it's a bridge forward.

When I sing it, I think of the quiet strength of my mother. I think of my daughter, my friends, the land.

I remember. And in doing so, I live.

So if you ever listen, you're not just hearing me—you're hearing a whakapapa of survival. It's not performance—it's a return. A healing. A remembering.

And that's what my art is always trying to do. continue