I found a weathered piece of driftwood etched with beetle markings on an ordinary afternoon walk. What began as a simple field observation became a meditation on detours, delays, and the timing that brings us exactly where we need to be.

A self-portrait and poem exploring identity, reflection, and self-definition. A meditation on the danger of borrowed names—and the courage it takes to shape who you are beyond what others see.

A frost-covered leaf in the early sun becomes a quiet mirror—still, shimmering, and almost waking. In its frozen ribs, I sense my own season of pause and the first small stirrings of renewal.

A weathered red door becomes a quiet portal of possibility—peeling paint, wandering vines, and a fleeting shadow inviting us to wonder what worlds might open when we dare to believe in them.

In the aftermath of burning to ashes, what was once cover becomes a wing—charred beams fanned open to the sky. An invitation to reflect on ruin, lightness, and the quiet possibility of flight.

A rusted excavator rests after the work is done. In the stillness, reflections begin to form—hinting at what can emerge through broken ground, once the water clears.