From the time I was able to scribble, I’ve been an artist. The colors of the crayons box held endless possibilities. And those names—Tickle Me Pink, Razzmatazz, Timberwolf, Outerspace (I would have loved to be in that room when they were picking them)—such welcoming invitations. 

I’ve always been drawn to quiet patterns hidden in ordinary things—maps and mosaics in the sidewalk cracks; scribbles by unseen creatures in worm-traced lines of dirt under paving stones overturned in search of fishing bait; the singular performance of a dandelion stem dancing as it curls to life in a bowl of water, then placed beside another, small masterpieces unfolding on the backyard picnic table. Snowflakes sticking to the window, each crystal ornate enough to rival the sparkle of the diamond on my mother’s left hand. The freckled constellations on my father’s arm traced by my fingertips as a small act of attention to carry me through long Sunday sermons.

The clarity of these early memories are still vivid as I recall them here, compelling me to translate them into something I can hold and see. The simplest things, bending toward design.