It’s hard to believe my time at the farms is coming to an end. For the past two years, I’ve wandered the wide, beautiful land east of Denver—meeting alpacas, cows, and even a few curious donkeys. I’ve watched the rhythms of nature unfold, from the shimmer of summer fields to dark storm clouds sweeping in from the west. The view of the Rocky Mountains has been a constant companion, sometimes veiled in rain, sometimes framed by soft, billowing clouds.

Through these seasons, I’ve learned what grows in Colorado and what colors the land gives back. Each plant, seed, and root tells its own story—of resilience, adaptation, and beauty.

Now, back in my studio, I’m translating those experiences into art. While creating was always the goal, this journey has become much more. It’s been about reconnecting to the land, tracing threads of history—both personal and collective—and deepening my care for the world around me.

The result of this work will come together in an exhibition titled Dust to Apples: Colors of the Eastern Plains, opening soon at the Adams County Government Center, with installations in both the Taza Coffee House and the lobby.

The show will feature a series of encaustic and ink paintings, a large sculptural piece, and two display cases filled with materials, artifacts, and pigments that tell the story behind the work. I’m also honored to include the stunning photography of Jimena Peck, whose images capture the soul of the land and the people who care for it.
​
This exhibition is both a culmination and a beginning—a reflection on how the land shapes us and how, in return, we leave our mark.

This week marked the start of my community outreach events. The first stop was Hometown Days in Strasburg, Colorado—a small town about an hour east of Denver and one of the places where I harvest my colors.
Sharing the inks I’ve made from local plants was both deeply rewarding and, at times, a little frustrating. The joy came in watching people light up when they saw the colors and recognized plants they knew. The challenge came from the relentless wind. Everything needed to be anchored down—watercolor paper, lids, even pencils. More than once, the wind claimed victory.
There’s probably a lesson somewhere in those two experiences—something about nature always having the upper hand, or about the art of surrender. My great-niece certainly embraced it. She laughed as we chased runaway papers across the park and didn’t mind when a gust sent water tumbling over her painting. Her delight was a reminder: sometimes the best response to life’s disruptions is joy.
I will be hosting several of these events this season. The next is in Bennet, Co, for Bennet Days, the first weekend in September. And then again for Welby Days, the last Saturday in September. I hope you will join me for these opportunities to engage with the colors of the Eastern plains.

​

The Eastern Plains of Colorado must have been a breathtaking sight in the early 1800s—thousands of bison and pronghorn roaming freely, with endless waves of grasses rippling under ever-changing winds.

This week, I stepped into that history during a visit to the Plains Conservation Center, just outside the Denver metro area. There, I spotted several herds of pronghorn and even caught a glimpse of a majestic golden eagle soaring overhead. But what struck me most was walking into one of the recreated historic sod homes—“sodies”—humble structures built from the very earth beneath our feet.

Standing inside, I couldn’t help but think of my great-grandparents, who lived in a similar home when they homesteaded this land in the late 1800s. It was a powerful, grounding experience—connecting the past to the present in a way that felt deeply personal.
​
The land holds memory. Humans have shaped it, scarred it, and sometimes forgotten their role in its story. Without the vision of those who preserved this patch of prairie, we might have lost not only the landscape but also the lessons it carries. Places like the Plains Conservation Center remind us that we are part of nature, not apart from it.

Today I visited Robert Sakata, a farmer based in Brighton, Colorado. Robert is the son of Bob Sakata, the founder of Sakata Farms. After being imprisoned in a Japanese internment camp in Utah during World War II, Bob came to Colorado determined to build a new life. He began farming with cut flowers but soon transitioned to vegetables. Colorado’s dry climate proved ideal for growing vegetables, helping reduce the risk of fungal disease.

At its peak, Sakata Farms spanned 6,000 acres and employed 400 seasonal workers. However, the cost of housing that many employees for just an eight-week harvest season eventually made the model unsustainable. Robert pivoted to growing feed crops for livestock and now manages 2,500 acres with a team of 14 employees.

This is just one example of the many challenges modern farmers face. Rising costs, rapid urban development, water rights disputes, and competition from larger out-of-state operations all place pressure on small and mid-sized farms. Additionally, many farms face uncertain futures as the current generation of farmers ages and younger generations often choose different paths.

Robert is also the first-ever water advisor for Colorado’s Department of Agriculture. Speaking with him, I began to grasp the complexity of water rights and usage in our state. Colorado sits at the headwaters of several major river systems that feed much of the Western U.S. At the same time, the Front Range is experiencing rapid population growth, which puts increasing pressure on water resources. As suburban areas expand, the needs of urban development often clash with those of agricultural water use.
​
When Colorado was first settled, most farms used flood irrigation. Today, many have transitioned to sprinkler systems and other more efficient irrigation methods. But even with advances in technology, the intersection of farming, water, and policy remains tangled and challenging.