Beginnings – Connecting with the Ancestors using craft as a meditation and ritual experience.
Memory is a strange thing. It comes in snapshots. It was 1983. I don’t remember the weather, I only remember rainy days when I was confined to playing indoors, but it must have been hot. I can tell because of the way my family looked in the photographs, red-faced Anglos, enjoying a summer holiday on the French coast. I remember pieces of flint as large as my head, scattered along the shoreline. Like many five year old boys, I always had a stick in my hand, and my mother found some green polyester twine, washed up on the shore.