Learning All Over Again — Nocturnae & Clean Again

Each time I return to an owl or a bear, I’m learning all over again.

No two works of mine are much alike. Part of that is intentional — I leave space before approaching a subject again. I try not to repeat the same pose, the same lines, or even the same mistakes. That space forces me to approach the form as if it were brand new — living, dynamic, and deeply personal.

I’ve carved several owls and bears, as you may have noticed. But these last two feel different. They feel more real to me — not necessarily because they are “better,” but because they carry more life. They speak a little louder when viewed.

I know there is still a long way to go. Not in the sense of making a better sculpture, but in learning to truly feel the life of the barn owl or the polar bear — to carve as if it were my own body. To understand every joint and muscle, every fold of feather or sweep of fur. To sense how they move. How they rest. Even how they might feel.

Growth as an artist is slow and patient. Each day is unique. Allowing the process to unfold in its own time is paramount.

Nocturnae

The word Nocturnae means “belonging to the night.” After long night shifts spent carving, I sometimes feel nocturnal myself.

This piece took years of quiet deliberation. The stone sat for a long time before it revealed itself. When it finally did, it wasn’t obvious or graceful — it showed itself crudely, almost stubbornly. I wish I had a photograph of its original state. You’d be surprised it’s the same work.

But that’s part of being an artist. You gaze into stone the way you might gaze into the stars — until a shape begins to emerge from the chaos of constellations.

The owl, in my mind, is deeply observant. Fused in stillness. Perched high on a rafter or doorframe, trying not to be seen, yet fully aware. It locks its gaze onto someone below, quietly contemplating their thoughts and feelings. There is tension in that stillness — a presence that feels almost psychological.

Clean Again

Where the owl holds silence, the bear carries gesture.

The pose may look playful or even lazy — the slow shuffle after a long day, hindquarters raised, sliding forward to spare a few calories. It’s open to interpretation.

But in truth, the bear is cleaning its fur by dragging its body across the snow. Hence the name Clean Again. It’s a simple, instinctual act. A reset. A return to clarity.

What I love most about these two pieces is their personalities. They are distinct from one another, yet both feel alive in their own way.

Both Nocturnae and Clean Again are currently available and can be viewed in the Available Works section of my website. I invite you to take a closer look — sometimes the life within a sculpture reveals itself more fully when you stand quietly in front of

From ICU to Inspiration: Reflections on Life, Art, and Stone Carving

It’s Monday morning. My little girl is at daycare, and for the first time in a while, I’m alone with my thoughts. The house is quiet. My pace is slow — and perhaps that’s exactly how it should be after narrowly escaping death.

Just a short while ago, I spent ten days in the ICU with a third-degree heart blockage caused by Lyme disease. I left the hospital with nothing but an IV in my arm and the bravery to pump antibiotics into my veins for two more weeks. It sounds frightening, and in many ways it was, but since that episode I’ve learned some things that have settled deep within me. The reason behind the experience, however, still feels like a mystery — one I may or may not solve in this lifetime.

Now, it’s as if I’ve been dropped back into my life with the pause button pressed. I can’t return to work yet, which feels like both a limitation and a gift — time to tackle the long-neglected corners of my home and life:

• Building a shed to make more room in the backyard.

• Clearing the basement.

• Organizing my studio.

The recurring theme is space.

I’ve read that the greatest deterrent to spiritual stagnation is being too busy. Jesus said it’s nearly impossible for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. And King Solomon — said to be the richest man in history — observed that idle hands lead to poverty. It seems the chase for wealth often leaves us stuck in the dirt. In truth, love is the only currency we truly share, and connecting with our spiritual selves is the first step to understanding God.

Art has a way of pulling these questions to the surface. Facing the thin edge between life and death has made me think often about life after death. I’ve wrestled with feelings of failure for not achieving more with my artistic goals — yet perhaps it’s better that we don’t fully understand how our “idle hands” might create more meaningful work on spiritual planes. A carving may seem small in the grand scheme of things, but it can hold deep meaning for someone — a reminder of who they are and why they matter.

Stone carving, by its very nature, is slow and deliberate. In a world that moves faster every day — propelled now by AI in ways more powerful than even the invention of the personal computer or the internet — it’s worth asking: What is the value of all this progress without consciousness and spirituality?

This morning, coffee in hand, I realized that happiness might be as simple as being content with what’s already in front of you. I won’t carve today — I still need to rest — but even the thought of taking a chisel and hammer to the 600-pound block of limestone in my backyard brings me comfort.

If you’re reading this, let it be a reminder: you are not made of stone. One day, the consciousness you know as “you” will be lifted out. And when that happens, you will bring nothing but the love you gave — and take only the love you were given.

That’s what I hope my work, and this blog, carry for you.