For many years, I dreamed of having my own business. So, when the opportunity presented in January of 2019, I went for it. Time to “make the leap”, as they say. Or, in my case, “take the flight”. The way I see it, making a leap indicates there is a clear starting and ending point, with a specific goal of reaching said destination. But, that’s not a good metaphor for my personal aspirations. Instead, I see myself taking off and simply experiencing all that this new perspective has to offer. And, this is what I wanted my logo to convey.

For weeks I struggled to construct the perfect visual to accompany what I felt. Images of “birds” and “flight” and “feathers” both consumed and eluded me. Until one morning, I woke up remembering an experience I had a few months after my mom died.

In the fall of 2013, I’d been existing in a foreign place that is visited by the bereaved. I was no longer deep in the trenches with grief. But, I also had not moved far beyond them. Every time I took a step, I looked back to see where my mom was. And, so I spoke to her. “Mom? Can you see us? I just want to know, if you can see us. Then, I can keep going.” It was a question I asked often. And, in some form or another, I always received a reply. But, I could never have anticipated the directness of the message I received one brisk morning.

A day after I reached out to my mother on the other side, my friend Jen and I were hiking with our dogs through our favorite county park. We were chatting about the usual stuff—dogs and work, and dogs and books, and dogs and food… You get the idea. I was always grateful for my “dog friends” who provided a retreat from my journey through grief.

Suddenly, my dog Olive started sniffing and pawing at the foliage in our path—very insistent in her quest. Expecting to find the typical Olive treasure—canine feces or a petrified rodent—I tugged gently on her leash to keep us moving along. But, when I saw what she had uncovered, I froze.

Two tiny wings winked up at me from the leaves. They were silver with white rhinestones adorning the sweep of the feathers. They looked like they might be charms for a bracelet, but they didn’t have eyes where they could be attached. They would have been pretty earrings, but again, they didn’t have posts. The only appendages they had were two little socket plugs where perhaps they had wrangled free from a tiny angelic torso.

Once again, my mom had responded. And, once again, I took another step forward.

Six years later, when I pulled the wings out of their cardboard box to use them as a muse for my logo, I was surprised to discover that the metal changed from silver to gold. “I can work with this,” I thought.

And, so I did.