~ Terra  ᐧ  Dyer  ᐧ  Gill ~
Earth  ᐧ  Creation  ᐧ  Breath

In 2010, I fell in love with open water ocean swimming while living on the Big Island of Hawai’i. After countless miles of long-distance solo swims, I saw my first shark. A relatively ‘small’ tiger shark about 7 feet long who just so happened to be circling one of my favorite underwater rock formations. It seemed more interested in its swim than pursuing me, so I simply finished my swim and made my way back to shore. Later that day I shared my experience with a friend and his advice was shockingly clear: “Locals say that when you see a shark, you need to swim straight for it. They’re apex predators and not used to being approached, so swimming towards them throws them off.” It was the last thing I wanted to hear, but I took it to heart. A few months later, I moved to the island of Kauai and was back in the water right away. What used to be short daily swims soon became 2 hr+ elongated devotionals where I would listen to humpback whales sing and then follow their calls as I swam up and down the coastline. A few months later, just after dusk, all the surfers had gone home for the day, and I was alone ‘in my zone’ about a quarter mile offshore. Then I saw it: a large gray body circling about 10 feet beneath me. My heart stopped. Every fiber of my being begged me to thrash and scream for help but then, in a flash of an instant, some better, more ancient part of me took charge and assessed. ‘Sharks sense fear. If I panic it will draw it closer.’ So I calmed just enough to think of a prayer; a mantra to keep my mind focused (*hopefully!*) and keep me calm. So I told the massive, approaching thing that I loved it and did the only thing I knew to do: “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and down I went. I swam straight towards what I soon knew was a Great White Shark. In a flash, it swam off and jetted up for a breath. Moments later, it circled back and I “lovingly” approached it again. Then, it swam off. When all seemed clear, I found my way back to shore and quickly collapsed on the beach. It took weeks for me to feel any sense of safety while alone in the water, but it took years for me to fully process and relate to the experiences of that day. In order to approach, integrate, and finally overcome the stalking fears from that epic encounter, I would have to consciously connect with my apex adversary and swim straight towards it every time it found its way into my consciousness. I left the islands and returned to the mainland to teach and create in less ‘stimulating’ environments. As a professional artist, I had already sold a myriad of artworks, was teaching college-level courses, and organizing and facilitating creative workshops for individuals, corporations, and nonprofits across the country. From the outside I was a highly-successful, thriving creator, but inside, I was secretly haunted by the feeling that I was a straight-up creative fraud. That overwhelming, fear-inducing illusion manifested itself in the form of unresolved traumas from my lifetime: shadowy sharks surfaced from deep within me, dominated my dreams, and beckoned me to approach once again. So I swam straight towards those terrifying, titanic-sized threats the only way I knew how. Limited only by land and lacker, I choose color over chaos. I slept little and created compulsively. I thrashed with tint; scratched and screamed through sketches; felt pain with paint; cried through color; and channeled my challenges into creations. Sharks streaked every surface, covered my clothes, and watched from my walls. I created everywhere. I created to survive. I created because it was only in the act of creating that I was able to challenge my fears and find my uniquely creative vision. As I did, my body became a conduit and my work, a physical representation of information channeled through me, imbued with that which I perceive as Holy, otherworldly, and supportive; art became both a creative expression and a channeling medium. After countless color-fueled creations and many marvelous mistakes, I finally felt like a true artist. But not any artist: I felt like my kind of artist: like me. I traded my traumas for artistic tools. Only then did my profession and my teachings begin to make sense to me. Only then did I feel at peace. I had to swim at my shark – first in the ocean and then in myself – in order to discover my meaning and to connect to my joy and my path as a creator and healing guide. Since then, I’ve developed a uniquely personalized style of working with people that encourages individually-crafted, manageable, embodied change. I bring loving attention, presence, energetic sensitivity, instinctive opportunities, and train clients in the mastery of new tools. My work is to offer a safe space, guidance, and provide viable pathways to transform trauma into teachers, and those teachers into treasures. Years ago, in one of my most harrowing moments, I found my center and I did the only thing that I knew to do at the time: I swam straight towards it. I dove down into my nightmare, I loved it, and I survived to share the story - and my work.