Fallen brown leaves absorbed last night’s rain. Fermenting aromas mingle in the mist. The pine trees feel thick and forbidding. Yet earth–transforming musk invites me to enter this liminal space between field and forest.
The wind changes direction and I look beyond sight (I listen). I crouch under timbers and climb moss-pocked boulders to cross over into the wild space of interior. I reach down between the crack of an oak trunk and the split seam of soil and find a form of living consciousness mysteriously birthed from layers of decay. Beyond plant or animal, I discover a kingdom far from ordinary human life.
As a young child, I entered the woods and never left. At thirty, my arms are deep in spinning clay—exploring memory and imagination—more curious with every gesture. I forage for sounds and forms within the land and myself: digging, making art, listening to my inner earth.