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.
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