In the gap between knowledge and experience, I drop the seeds of myself. They grow into a gnarled ball of roots over which I trip and skin my knees.

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Almost all of everything can be explained with chemistry and physics. For the rest, we make art. My art is looking for the space between measurements and metaphors, where what is exact in the mind becomes fluid in the hand.

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For about twelve years, I made diagrammatic sculptures built from patterns derived from my body. I thought of my flesh-and-bone body like a planet in space, then mapped my latitudes, perimeters, rotations, and orbits. I used repetitive fiber processes, like stitching, to chase what felt like secret knowledge: the fleeting moment Matthieu Ricard wrote about as the place where “thoughts untie themselves.” It was a long time to be repeating silently the crochet pattern 3-5-9-1-4-2-1-2-2-7-12-3-6-12-20-1. One day I had enough and stopped.

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I’m in a quiet reorientation. I’m still rooted in my body—where else? And still using stitches to transform a single line into myriad spaces and from that multitude, a cohesive whole. My tool is usually a crochet hook. Once made of bone, it is immanent with the infinite, irrational, sublime, fractal universe.

For all that, I don’t believe in transcendence. I’m a systems thinker following recursive paths through fluid boundaries. My research meanders through disciplines that include cognitive and Buddhist psychology and geology. Most recently, I am quite taken with Glacial Lake Missoula. In my landscape, I am looking for lines always visible and everywhere subtle.*

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* The line between scrubbed and unscrubbed valley walls is visible in many places, but everywhere subtle. Geologist David Alt describing the landscape north of the Flathead River west of Dixon, Montana in Glacial Lake Missoula and Its Humongous Floods, Mountain Press Publishing Company, Missoula, MT, 2001, p 56.