2013- I had the opportunity to drive around New Jersey, about three quarters of an hour west of where I grew up. Something about the look of the woods instantly transported me back to childhood. It is partly the way any bits of forest are divided up by houses, gas stations, shopping malls and corporate offices and partly something in the way they look. These patches of oak woods are very different from the mostly maple and ash mix of upstate. Something about the grey of the trunks, the brown of the dense leaf litter and the ubiquitous sprinkling of discarded plastic bags and other trash is the color of sadness to me.
But looking up, here in the suburbs I have the chance to immerse myself in the patterns of sycamore branches against the grey-white winter sky. I am reminded of how each tree has its unique branching pattern more beautiful and intricate than the finest lace. I think it is the source of my love of lace. How better to sit, immersed in time, than by imitating the interwoven messages of the trees?
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