There is something mysterious about wood, driftwood in particular. The trail of its journey, the turns and twists it takes along the way. The burnished parts of its body, the bleached spots from sun and sand. We do not know the journey it takes and how long it takes to get to its destination, but it comes to us with a tale told.
For those who know me, one can say I have a slight obsession with wood. Particularly wood that has beat to a pulp. The underdog. Thrashed, worn, used, abused, neglected, tattered and torn. Its journey weighs heavy in it's appearance. I have always been drawn towards the underdog, always rooted for the losing team or the lingering candidate, the "loner" of independent thought, the weird and the bizarre. Perhaps this is my draw towards driftwood; it is the underdog... the piece neglected to rot and wither away under soil and leaves; its journey to be forgotten. Not I.
Each piece renders a different story; from where did it come from, and why? For what purpose? Are we, like these drifters of a similar nature? Are we on a mysterious path of twists and turns, or shall we remain with the roots in which we were birthed?
I, for one recognize with that lone piece of driftwood. On a journey of its own. Following earth's natural rhythms of ebb and flow. Where to next? In going with my natural draw to driftwood, and my love of it's beauty, I have started to make a small collection of wall hangings.