I began this piece in a fury in mid-July 2016.
I didn't have a plan, per se. I had a stack of 3x3" squares, I had a pile of roving I had recently purchased at the local Fiber Fest, and I had a deep need to reflect on the way that the way that words spoken and words unspoken are both tangible. Both come together to form a dense fabric of memory. Of family. Both shape experience. Both can be done in the spirit of love and yet can be destructive in their own way.
The longer I stabbed fleece through cloth, and the longer I stitched absence into tactile presence, the more I both understood that and found a kind of peace within it.
In spite of all of the things we may wish we had heard, or wish we had said, in the end we are still left with a dense, nubby thing that, for better or worse, simply is. Gaps and ground both equally material. I recently finished Ruth Ozeki's wonderful A Tale for the Time Being, and old Jiko's Zen reflections seem appropriate: Said, unsaid, same thing.