My creative practice grows out of the domestic conditions, rituals and materials I interact with each day.
Impede
This was temporary, only lasting as long as the ink did. Gradually letters started to fade & the poem eroded into a kind of whisper.
I wrote it on my mother’s bathroom mirror (by request) when she was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
The Real Work by Wendell Berry