Borrowed From the Forest: Backyard Lessons in Balance and Belonging

On days like this, life feels simple and good. I’m sitting at the back of the house in the shade, looking out at the yard soaking in the sun. It’s not the manicured grass of suburbia, but a patchwork of ground cover—clover, moss, and other wild plants that keep it lush and green even in the hottest seasons.

Around the edges, country-tough perennials thrive without needing any care, surviving droughts with ease. A willow-like tree stretches its long branches low to shelter the cool, shaded corner where I sometimes carve. In the back corner, a towering spruce provides the squirrels with pinecones and endless climbing ground. Two stubborn vines compete for the sun across the pagoda, while elderberry trees quietly prepare for their fruit.

It’s a small space, but a complete little ecosystem. A balance. A haven. Animals know it too—they return year after year, trusting me enough to linger instead of scattering at the first sign of movement. I’ve invested plenty into food to keep them coming, partly for my daughter’s joy, but also because their presence makes this place feel alive.

Why keep it this way? Because this backyard isn’t truly ours—it’s borrowed from the forest. We’ve carved our homes and yards out of wild ground, but the truth is, we belong to it as much as it belongs to us.

Spending time among animals has always reminded me of this. Their character qualities resonate with us—we borrow their sounds, their quirks, even their wisdom. Many animistic traditions see animals as messengers of deeper mysteries, truths still invisible to the Western mind. They honor the creatures in a way we often forget to.

Our modern way is different—we cultivate, harvest, and consume. And yet, even in small choices, we can reconnect. I recently tasted grass-fed milk again, and the difference from conventional milk was striking. My family has roots in cattle farming, so I know the richness of well-fostered animals. It was a reminder that care and respect change everything.

I don’t pretend to know it all. In fact, the more time I spend among animals and plants, the more I realize how little we truly know. But what I do know is this: we are kin. We borrow from each other’s lives. And if we must borrow, we should also give back.

So I carve, I observe, I give space. And I remain grateful—for this backyard sanctuary, for the animals who return, and for the reminder that all of this is borrowed from the forest.

Here’s to another day in the studio.

Rest and Rejuvenation: Time to Relax

This week, I was on vacation—a rare stretch of hours alone, free from the usual demands. While the artist in me itched to fill that time finishing one or two pieces, I chose instead to take a little space for myself. Between family and house-related tasks, I carved out moments to refuel, and let me tell you—I needed it.

I had forgotten what it feels like to truly get lost in time. To just be. The Merovingian in The Matrix once said, “Ah yes, who has time? But then if we never take time, how can we ever have time?” That line has always stuck with me. As artists, as parents, and even just as individuals, we often feel like our time is owned by others. Whether by deadlines, loved ones, or responsibilities, it’s rare to feel that time is truly ours.

Taking a couple of days to myself, I found a kind of heaven. A morning run followed by a long swim, surrounded by the forest, grounded my feet and cleared my mind. I was alone with the sound of the water and the scent of the trees, and it reminded me of something essential: why I create.

Those moments brought me back to what matters most—the core of who we are. Some might call it the original self, the “face we had before we were born.” Others might see it as the facets of identity that shape us, each one contributing to the whole. For me, it’s both. It’s reconnecting with the part of me that exists outside of the noise, outside of the expectations, and simply is.

Life’s pressures can be transformative. They have the power to turn coal into diamonds—if we let the process unfold. But it can be an unbearable weight without the balance of rest and rejuvenation. Taking that time isn’t just about catching our breath; it’s about remembering why we’re here and rediscovering the motivation to create.

And when we create, not for someone else, but for ourselves, we breathe new life into our work. Rest isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity for art, for growth, and for living fully. Let’s take the time to reclaim it.

Honoring the Vision: A Reflection on Creation and Legacy

When Disneyland opened its gates for the very first time, a poignant moment unfolded. An interviewer expressed regret to Walt Disney's brother, saying, "I'm really sorry that Walt wasn't here to see this." His brother’s reply was as profound as it was simple: "He did see it; that’s why you’re seeing it today."

This story captures the essence of holding onto a vision—a vision that transcends time and circumstance, even when the originator isn’t physically present. Yet, holding onto such a vision can be one of life’s greatest challenges. Sometimes the idea evolves so far from its original form that we lose sight of what it once was. Other times, we find ourselves trapped in the act of trying too hard, pushing beyond the point of clarity. The most difficult competition is not with others, but with ourselves—with the person we were yesterday, the person we imagined we’d be, or the person we’re striving to become.

In moments of doubt, I remind myself of the deep roots that ground me. I was born on the Canadian Shield, a landscape shaped by glaciers and time. The etched lines of its ancient rock hold stories that have become part of my memory. For most of my life, I didn’t realize the profound influence this rugged terrain had on me. Beneath the dark, rich soil lies a masterpiece of natural sculpture—a testament to the Earth’s resilience and artistry.

This realization has shaped my work. I’ve found solace and purpose in paying homage to the land, in transforming its hardened forms into creations that remind us why life is worth living. Whether through stone, bronze, or other materials, my art seeks to honor the timeless connection between humanity and the Earth. The land’s stories are older than we can comprehend, and its wisdom is something we must carry forward.

As the Indigenous peoples of this land remind us, "Only the rocks stay." This profound truth resonates deeply with me. The rocks, ever-present and enduring, remind us of the permanence of nature amid the impermanence of our lives. Through my work, I hope to capture a fraction of that permanence and share it with others.

We must hold onto our visions, however elusive they may seem. They are the bridges between the past, present, and future. And in the act of creating, we find not only a connection to the world around us but also to the self we were always meant to be.