Welcome, I’m Christine Gibbins.

I was five years old, sitting at the kitchen table while my mother moved through the ritual of preparing a meal for people she loved. The kitchen was warm with the promise of gathering, of nourishment, of the kind of care that shows up in carefully prepared food and open doors.

She was busy, hands moving with purpose, vegetables to chop, pots to tend, the careful orchestration of feeding souls. She needed space to work her own kind of magic. She handed me a piece of paper and a pencil, her way of giving me something to hold onto while she created. "Go draw," she said simply.

So I took that paper and pencil to the living room, stretched out belly-down on the floor, feet up in the air—the way I always drew when I was young and I created something.

And I never stopped.

That moment planted something, a seed that would root deeper than I could have imagined. Art became the language I spoke before I had words for what moved through me. The way I made sense of the world. The way I found myself when I felt lost. The way I've been offering my own kind of nourishment ever since.

I've been an artist for as long as I can remember being anything at all. By 10 years old, I was selling my work, following a thread I was born holding, creating because I couldn't imagine not creating. Art wasn't something I chose, it chose me that day on the living room floor, and I've been answering its call ever since.

And like my mother, I now create spaces of nourishment. I cook meals for people I love. I host gatherings where laughter and ritual intertwine. I understand now what she was teaching me without words: that feeding people, whether through food or art or sacred space, is itself an act of love.

I've also been a psychic medium my whole life, sensing and seeing what others couldn't, carrying gifts I didn't yet have names for. I completed a six-month certification program under a gifted teacher, finally learning to understand and hone what I'd always carried. I discovered my strengths, explored countless modalities, and became certified in the abilities I was born with. Now I channel spirit, guides, and ancestors through my work, weaving together the seen and unseen, the art and the intuition, the earth and the etheric.

For over 17 years, I've been walking between worlds, holding space where creativity becomes ceremony, where nature whispers the language your soul has always spoken, where healing roots deep and grows wild.

Before I taught small hands to trust their creative magic, I walked the corridors of psychiatric locked-down units and rehabilitation centers. For two years, I worked with adults and adolescents whose words had run dry, whose stories lived in silence, whose pain asked for a different language.

I watched art become the bridge when everything else fell away. I saw color speak truth that years of talk therapy couldn't touch. I witnessed creativity unlock what trauma had sealed shut, one brushstroke softening what had hardened, one image revealing what had been hidden, one created thing proving that making is itself a form of mending.

This is where I learned: art isn't decoration. It's resurrection. It's the way we find our way back.

I carry a Bachelor of Science in Art Therapy and Psychology, the science of how we break and how we heal. A Master's in Art Education, the art of holding space for transformation. Clinical hours in places where healing happened quietly, slowly, courageously. And nearly two decades teaching everyone from four-year-olds discovering that paint is permission to adults remembering they're allowed to create without apology. In 2020, the same year I followed the cedars West, I earned the Most Valuable Teacher Award, recognition that this work matters, that creative education changes lives, that holding space for young artists to bloom is sacred work.

I'm originally from Buffalo, New York. East Coast born, shaped by snow and sports and seasons that ask you to endure.

I was a college athlete before I was a spiritual guide, I played field hockey and basketball. I learned discipline in early morning practices, dedication on the field, the power of showing up for my team, and that the body is capable of more than we imagine. I've coached youth sports for years because I believe in teaching young people this same truth, just as I now teach that creativity is boundless when we stop trying to contain it.

But I always felt something wilder calling. Something older than city streets. Something that spoke in a language I didn't yet know how to answer.

In 2020, after my divorce, I finally listened. I left everything familiar, left marriage, left the East Coast, left the life that looked right but felt wrong and followed the whisper of ancient cedars I'd never met but somehow already knew.

I moved West. And the forest became my greatest teacher.

These Pacific Northwest forests showed me that healing isn't linear, it spirals, roots down, reaches up, lets go, begins again. That we are part of the earth's medicine when we remember how to listen to what grows wild within us. That creativity is as essential as breathing, as natural as moss covering stone, as inevitable as spring after the longest winter.

That transformation happens in threshold spaces between heartbreak and healing, between forgetting and remembering, between the person we were and the one we're becoming. That the forest holds ancient wisdom we've forgotten but our bones still recognize. That sometimes you have to lose yourself completely to find what was always there, rooted deeper than you knew.

The cedars taught me to stand tall, even when storms come. To grow slowly. To offer shelter. To understand that what looks like decay is actually feeding what comes next.

By day, I tend the creative spirits of elementary artists in Vancouver, Washington. I teach TK through 5th grade at two schools in the Vancouver School District, creating my own curriculum because boxed programs can't hold what I know is possible, that every child is an artist until the world convinces them otherwise, and my work is making sure that never happens.

But my soul work happens in the spaces between.

Through The Intuitive Brush, I hold sacred space where moss-covered wisdom meets paint-stained hands, where healing flows like sap through bark, where the forest whispers and you remember.

I offer Sacred Light Sessions, channeling your aura into art, revealing the colors your energy speaks when words aren't enough. I guide souls through Inner Forest, my eight-week journey where ancient forest wisdom meets creative healing and transformation becomes inevitable. I create Divine Feminine Drawings, flowing, unbroken lines capturing your essence, your strength, your becoming. I hold Earth Medicine Sessions where art therapy principles meet nature-based healing and your hands become the bridge between earth and spirit.

I teach Young Artist Alchemy to children who need to know their creativity is magic, not mess. I paint Intuitive Energy Paintings, channeled pieces created through deep meditation with spirit, guides, and ancestors, transmitting healing long after the paint dries. I facilitate Seasonal Ritual Workshops at each solstice and equinox, honoring the wheel of the year through creative intention-setting and earth connection.

Every offering is an invitation: to remember, to create, to heal, to become.

I share my home in Vancouver, Washington, with Huxley, my 10-year-old Mini Australian Shepherd, who reminds me daily that joy lives in simple things, forest walks, belly rubs, and the way afternoon light filters through cedar branches.

When I'm not channeling or creating or teaching, you'll find me on forest trails with my Nikon, capturing light through leaves and the way moss tells its quiet stories. Meditation, breathwork, and pilates keep me grounded and present. I get energy work done consistently because I believe in receiving the same medicine I offer.

My sound bath is hearing nature, birds calling, wind moving through branches, the creek speaking its constant prayer. My cold plunge is dipping my feet in my favorite river spot, face turned up to the sun. My sauna is the warmth of summer on my skin after that cold shock of water. These simple rituals, earth, water, sun, breath, are how I remember I'm part of something larger.

I love to travel, though not in the way most people do. I'm not looking for the Vatican or the tourist sites everyone photographs. I'm drawn to the cobblestone roads marked "private property," to the neighborhoods where locals live, to small markets and kitchen tables and the unpolished truth of how people actually make their lives. I want to see how they cook, how they gather, what their daily rituals look like. This is where I find the real medicine, in the ordinary sacred moments that don't make it into guidebooks.

I'm drawn to sisterhood, the deep nourishment of women gathering, holding space for one another, witnessing each other's becoming. I come from a long line of it. My grandmothers, my mother, my two younger sisters. We are woven from the same thread, the kind of love that shows up in kitchen conversations, in meals cooked slowly with intention, in laughter so deep it heals something you didn't know was broken. My sisters are two of the most beautiful souls I know, and that bond, that fierce, tender, unshakable thing between us, is one of the greatest gifts of my life. Like the women before me, I love creating spaces of nourishment, cooking meals that feed both body and soul, opening my door and my table to people I love.

You'll often find me curled up with books like Joyful by Ingrid Fetell Lee or Wintering by Katherine May, a warm cup of tea in hand, a ritual I inherited from my father, who was born in the UK. He's a builder, a craftsman who works with wood and has always been drawn to the beauty of grain beneath his hands. I think I get it from both of them, my mother with her nourishment, my father with his making. These quiet moments of reading and sipping tea are as essential to me as the forest trails and creative work. Beauty, rest, and simple comforts aren't luxuries, they're how we tend our souls.

I tend to my friendships that nourish rather than deplete. I set boundaries that honor the energy I carry. I move through the world with intention, presence, and trust in what the forest teaches: grow slowly, root deep, offer shelter, stand tall even when storms come.