For a long time, I have known that wings are woven from sound.

For a long time, I believed that the voice I spoke in was my own.

Many years ago, while preparing for a mid-term exam, I was exhausted and had a dream while awake: I saw a piano standing on a barren hill. The lid opened, and the strings crawled forward like luminous snakes, then curved into the shining wings of a majestic being, swaying gently. I thought my angel visited me. Its unflinching gaze was inscrutable, alien. I craved its closeness more than anything.

Many years passed before I understood that it was me, and I have to spread my wings so that the music flowing from me could spread to the world. I have to find my own, innermost voice. Five years ago, I received permission to use sacred sound-producing devices. During the initiation meditation, the Masters of Sound showed me an image: my bare wings were covered with feathers, one growing after the other, and the frozen, flightless stumps slowly came to life.

From then on, I kept finding owl feathers in the garden, on forest paths, on the sidewalk in front of the corner store, on stone surrounded by stream water - undamaged and dry. Magpie, chickadee, jay feathers, and owl feathers again. I kept all of them.

Recently, it occurred to me to make a smoke fan out of them. Since then, every time I look at it, it starts telling a story - it tells me a story the same way Anaha jewels tell one their owner. It reminds me of the journey I have made so far, and also of what still lies ahead of me.