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I Was Little Too

Mon, 19 Jan 2026 20:35:55 GMT

Building a bridge between past and future.

This Christmas I created two handmade books for my grandchildren — one for my grandson and one for my granddaughter. I called them I Was Little Too.

The books are built around family photographs: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, all shown in their childhood. I transformed these images into colouring books so that the children could do more than simply look at them. They could touch the pages, turn them slowly, and add colour of their own.

Each book begins with a simple page that says This is me. From there, the story unfolds through the people who surround the child today — seen at a time when they themselves were small. I wanted the children to recognise familiar faces and, at the same time, to sense time moving quietly beneath the images.

I made these books by hand, thinking carefully about rhythm and sequence. About how a child opens a book. Where the story begins. Where it pauses. This was not just about assembling photographs, but about creating a gentle conversation between generations — one that does not require explanation, only attention.

When my grandchildren opened the books for the first time, they spent a long time looking. They asked questions, compared faces, laughed, and pointed. Then they began to colour. Through this simple gesture, family history shifted from something distant and abstract to something personal. By colouring the images, they were not only responding to the past — they were entering it.

At the end of one book I placed a photograph of a grandfather who is no longer with us. Before that image, I added a sheet of tracing paper. For me, this was an important pause. The past seen through another past. A moment of distance that asks for care, not avoidance.

My own family history was deeply affected by historical trauma. My great-grandparents were killed during the revolution in 1917 in Russia, and my grandfather and his siblings were saved by a woman who helped them escape — at the cost of changing their surname. With that, many connections were broken, and much of our family story was lost. Over the years, I have tried to recover fragments of this past through memories and stories, knowing that not everything can be restored.

These books are not an attempt to reconstruct what has been lost. They are an attempt to carry something forward. To build a bridge between past and future — not through facts alone, but through touch, curiosity, and shared moments.

My grandchildren will keep these books for many years and one day, they may open them with their own children or simply remember that behind them there is a history —one that can be held in the hands, page by page.

To each, their own pace.

Sat, 03 Jan 2026 17:55:09 GMT

Thoughts on slowing down, creative work, and the year behind me.

Every time we stand on the threshold of the New Year, I look back.

For me, 2025 became a year of conscious and gradual forward movement.

Sometimes it feels like there is not enough time and that I am not moving as fast as I would like. But over time comes the understanding that everyone has their own pace.

When I allow myself not to rush, it becomes easier for me to think and make decisions.

Throughout 2025, I continued working on projects that I had started earlier. They may not be developing as quickly as I would sometimes like, but it is precisely in this rhythm that I begin to find my own form of expression and to do what truly resonates with me.

For me, this is a process of searching—understanding how I want to express my thoughts and show them through photography.

It is valuable that along this path there were, and still are, people who support me—both creatively and on a human level. This sense of stability and inner balance accompanied me throughout the past year.

I am not in a hurry, and I do not demand the impossible from myself.

Like many others, I think about what I want in the coming year. I want to complete one of my projects and give it the form of a book. I am also thinking about participating in group exhibitions and, possibly, holding a solo exhibition.

A special place in my work is occupied by a project about volunteers. It is important to me that people who quietly and daily invest a part of their lives into a common cause are seen and heard. For me, they are invisible heroes whose small contributions help preserve large and important things—whether it is the restoration of a space or the preservation of memory for future generations. I feel that this is important for the community and for the society in which I live.

In parallel, I continue working with the theme of memory and family. My family archive was lost—during the revolution of 1917–1920, all documents about my ancestors were destroyed. Last year, I learned about the fate of my great-grandfather, a priest, and my great-grandmother—they were executed during that period.

Since the archive no longer exists, I try to recreate it in my own way—through photography, through my own ideas and visual images. For me, this is a way to preserve the memory of my relatives and pass it on to future generations, including my grandchildren.

Slowly, in small steps, I continue to move in this direction.

In the coming year, my wish to myself is to keep going—at my own pace, attentively listening to myself and to what is happening around me.

Absent Presence

Thu, 11 Dec 2025 18:48:26 GMT

When the phone becomes the closest thing we hold.

Sometimes it seems to me that the mobile phone is more than just a means of communication - it has become something much more important for all of us.

Today at the gym, I once again saw a familiar “scene” in which almost every person was holding a phone in their hands, directing all their attention onto a small screen, frozen in place.

The same happens on the street and in cafés.

Recently, I was walking with a young man, and a girl literally bumped into us — she was walking with her eyes buried in her phone. Familiar story?

This happens constantly.

People part with all kinds of things, separate from each other, but with their phone — never.

The strongest moment happened to me once in the city, when I was crossing the street. A car was turning left, and a phone fell from its roof right at my feet. I picked it up and, bringing it home, put it on charge. After some time, the phone rang. It was the man who had lost it. We arranged to meet so that I could return his device, and after thanking me, he used a phrase that still stays in my mind:

“My whole life is in this phone.”

I was stunned. In that phrase was the most accurate definition of our time.

We have created gadgets, and now the gadgets have consumed us. The phone has become both - organ and external memory, without which so many people can no longer function themselves.

I keep thinking about how we are so close — and at the same time, so far from each other.

The phone has become a dominant participant in our everyday life.

This thought led me to the project “Absent Presence.”

This series of photographs is my observation and my attempt to capture and show how physical closeness no longer means emotional closeness.

How we are present next to each other — and at the same time absent.

Sometimes it is enough to simply look away from the screen to see that what is real is right beside you..

It is today’s reality, this is becoming more and more difficult.

“Absent Presence” is my way of speaking honestly about this.

It is my view of what has already become our norm.

“In the Flow of Time — London Reflections”

Fri, 17 Oct 2025 08:16:44 GMT

How time, memory, and light intertwined on the day of my exhibition.

Yesterday, an exhibition opened in London in which I participated.

It was wonderful to see people coming up, asking questions, and showing genuine interest.

It was also fascinating to see other works — some artists truly moved me.

My theme is once again about time — about its flow, something that is, in fact, almost impossible to notice in real life.

Almost everyone asked me about my technique: what methods I used, whether I applied something like tracing paper. But these are my own photographs. And, to be honest, I was surprised myself when I first saw them printed — they looked like drawings.

Special thanks to the team who helped me with the printing — the result exceeded my expectations.

In this series, I wanted to show an analogy to life itself — how we move through uncertainty, through rises and falls, and gradually find a path toward the light.

Sometimes it feels as if darkness will never end, but that’s not true.

In my photographs, I continue to explore this phenomenon — how light and time intertwine along our path through life.

There Is a Whole Life in Each Day

Sun, 12 Oct 2025 18:42:22 GMT

A Grandmother’s Reflection on Time and Love.

We often hurry through life, waiting for something — for future meetings, events, holidays.

Yet, It’s the simple, everyday moments that become the most precious when you realise how quickly they pass.

Although time cannot be stopped — we can feel its value.

Every time I visit my grandchildren, I’m reminded again of how quickly time flies.

It seems I’ve spent only a few days with them, yet that’s enough to notice how much they’ve changed.

They’re growing, not only on the outside but also within — maturing, thinking, reflecting on things and on life itself, in a deeper and more serious way.

I often think and write about time — about how everything around us changes every single day.

You feel it most when you live far away from your loved ones.

I come to visit — and suddenly I see how obvious the changes are.

For parents, they happen gradually, almost imperceptibly, but for a grandmother who visits only a few times a year, it’s like watching a film and fast forwarding; the children have already grown.

I had just returned home when my daughter called me by phone — my grandson wanted to talk to me.

He’s only four and a half years old, but he was very upset.

He was worried that he hadn’t said goodbye to me properly.

He spoke with such sincerity, with that innocent hurt only children are capable of:

— “Grandma, why didn’t we say goodbye for real?”

There was so much sadness and confusion on his little face, in his gestures, in his voice.

He was truly heartbroken.

His words, and everything I saw in that moment, touched me to the very core.

It’s in such moments that you realise how precious life is.

Moments pass, but they leave a trace.

We cannot stop time, but we should cherish every moment — because it will never come again.

⸻

Perhaps the only thing that can compensate for the passing of time

is appreciation - gratitude for the fact that it was.

For this morning, this day, this moment.

The Space of Waiting

Tue, 23 Sep 2025 21:12:53 GMT

When silence turns into images.

This year, during another medical examination, I once again found myself in a space of waiting. Waiting for a diagnosis, an answer, something unknown. This state sharpens perception. Everything around becomes fragile and strange, elusive and unfamiliar. I Myself become vulnerable and tense. Photography has always been a way for me to look at the world and at myself. it is precisely in such periods that images begin to enter my field of vision that would normally go unnoticed. I see them and capture them: a bent spoon, the moon behind a fence, a distorted hand behind glass, a body dissolved in a translucent surface, an aquarium refracting familiar shapes. These frames are foreign to my usual gaze. They appear as if on their own, as though my inner state were searching for a way out and finding it through the lens. In them, tension, fear, and uncertainty reveal themselves—but also the desire to endure, to live through, to preserve. I believe that every photograph carries not only an image, but also the inner content of the one who makes it. if the pictures seem strange not only to you, but also to others, then perhaps they are speaking of something larger than external reality. They become reflections of the soul, its echoes. For me, these photographs are not just visual fragments. They are traces of my waiting and my experiences, my conversations with myself. A doctor once told me: “You must speak about your pain, you must put it into words and not keep everything inside.” At that time, I could not. Now I speak through images. Perhaps this is their strength: they capture not only what can be seen, but also what is most difficult to express.

Freedom within constraints.

Wed, 03 Sep 2025 09:28:04 GMT

We do not choose to be born and we cannot escape death. This two are predestined. However for the space in between exists complete freedom .

At some point, you begin to sense the collision between freedom and predestination. On the one hand, the finiteness of life sets boundaries, and in this sense, absolute freedom does not exist. We do not choose when and to whom we are born, and we cannot avoid death. This is a fundamental limitation.

Yet within these boundaries, we still possess freedom of choice. There are always several ways out of a given situation, and even if each of them leads to the same final point—death—the very roads we walk can be different: either filled with meaning, love, creativity, or, on the contrary, with fear and avoidance.

It is like a labyrinth with only one exit. Yes, all paths lead to it, but the process of wandering remains in our hands, and it is precisely this, in deciding how to relate to pain, to illness, to accidents, to loved ones, that freedom reveals itself.

This idea echoes what Albert Camus once called the absurd: we strive for meaning, while the world remains indifferent. Also the paradox lies in the fact that, despite this indifferent reality, a human being continues to live, to choose, and to give events their own meaning.

Perhaps this is where true strength lies: not in denying the predestination of the end, but in filling the path toward it with the light of one’s own decisions.

The Shape of the Invisible

Mon, 25 Aug 2025 16:56:17 GMT

Capturing the Invisible

Today I watched the wind and gazed at clouds drifting into the distance.

How my hair lifted into the air, how the invisible touched me—and vanished.

I thought about time—how much it resembles the wind.

We cannot see it, we cannot hold it, yet it is always here: moving, touching, passing through us.

I decided to make the invisible visible.

Every breath of wind I captured with my camera.

A click—and the moment is preserved.

A click—and what has gone remains in memory.

A click—and I freeze the breath of time.

This series is about fluidity and brevity, about what will never return.

Every movement of air is like life, a thought, a touch: it exists, and in the same second, it is gone.

I recall my husband’s words: “I only believe in what I can see and touch with my hands.”

But there is wind, there is sound, there is love, there is time.

They are invisible, yet they exist.

We live inside this invisible.

These photographs are my way of touching it.

They are about time that slips away, about memory that preserves, about life that passes,

and about how even in the briefest breath of wind, there is eternity.

While time flies

Thu, 21 Aug 2025 18:12:06 GMT

In the flight of days — to find your inner compass.

Yesterday I was walking through the city after my workout. I had shopping bags in my hands and a list of tasks in my head. Everything was planned: go here, do this, then another thing, and suddenly I found myself thinking: how do others live?

I remembered myself when I was young. Studying at university, a little daughter, endless chores. Back then it seemed to me: “When my child grows up, I will finally have time for everything.” But my child grew up, and there was still no more time.

Today I am a grandmother of two grandchildren, and I still don’t have enough time. I need to cook, clean, work in the garden, complete assignments for my course, sort through the photographs I’ve taken, give attention to my relationships, go for a walk, read a book, and all this in between other things. Where can I find time for everything?

Within myself I realised: you shouldn’t wait for time to appear “someday.” I try to learn to arrange my day so that there is enough not only for duties, but also for joy. I remember literally “crawling” back from the garden, and then spending several days in pain. Now I set a timer: one hour of gardening — and that’s enough. But every day, and with pleasure.

The same goes for everything else. If I stay with one task too long, I begin to hate what I am doing, and it is important for me to switch, to refocus, to keep my zest for life.

I know: thousands of books and manuals have been written on how to organise time. Courses, coaching and advice. But no matter how many there are, responsibility always remains with the person — for how they live their life, for what they spend their days on. For me, this is not about management, but about awareness.

Life does not sit neatly on a shelf together with ready-made recipes from books. It is lived — here and now.

Time does not arrive tomorrow. It leaves — every minute, and only I decide whether I fill this day with fatigue and irritation, or with joy and inspiration.

Lasting Light

Mon, 18 Aug 2025 18:37:18 GMT

A Bridge Between Past and Present

A Memory of My Uncle.

Recently, many events have happened in my life, but one of the most difficult for me was the news of my uncle’s death. For me, he was not just a relative — he was a friend, a companion, a person who supported me in many of my endeavors. His passing was a tremendous shock, and I still cannot fully believe that he is no longer here.

He was always a person full of extraordinary energy: cheerful, active and curious. He was always on the move, always coming up with something; he had an inexhaustible zest for life.

The last time we saw each other was in September in Germany. We visited the Ludwig Museum in Cologne and saw works by contemporary artists and people he personally knew. For him, these were not just paintings — they were living memories of the times he had been through, of the artists he knew, their styles, ideas, and even their personal energy. For me, it became a bridge between the past and the present. In those moments, he radiated happiness. To me, he was a person who shared my interests and helped me understand all the subtleties of contemporary art.

He was only 79, and looking at his vitality, it seemed to me that he could have lived another ten years. I could not keep up with his pace. Even now, as I write about him, I remember his lively expression and the phrase: “Well, after the museum, shall we go to the conservatory to listen to classical music?”

The awareness that we are all mortal has always existed, but when it concerns your loved ones, the mind resists and refuses to believe it.

Death is an inseparable part of life, and sooner or later we all face it.

And the more I think about it, the more I understand: the most important thing is to live today. Not to wait for tomorrow, for tomorrow is only today that will come again. To enjoy life the way he knew how to.

My uncle left me not only the memory of himself but also a lesson — to cherish every moment and not postpone joy.

What Enters the Field of Vision

Sat, 19 Jul 2025 10:29:07 GMT

A flower from the garden, a memory from the past, a quiet layering of time.

Returning from my trip, the first thing I did was to visit my garden.

What immediately caught my eye was the hydrangea bush we planted eight years ago, when my mother passed away. These flowers — vivid and full of life — always remind me of her.

She was a very bright person. I picked one and brought it inside the house.

Lately, I’ve noticed that different objects keep entering my field of vision. I feel that they reflect my inner state. When I place them on top of my photographs, I’m not just decorating the image — I’m layering one reality over another.

The photograph exists on its own, but the object I add becomes a carrier of emotion, memory, or the feeling I’m experiencing in the moment. It makes the image more personal, more alive.

I think I’ll keep doing this. Maybe it’s my way of understanding myself better?

Grief in Bloom

Mon, 30 Jun 2025 18:11:06 GMT

Grief in Bloom

I picked a poppy in the garden and brought it home. I don’t know why or what guided me.

When I took it apart into tiny pieces and laid them out on the table, I realised how beautiful it had been before — but now the poppy looked completely different.

A sudden thought flashed through my mind… How much we resemble each other!

I started reading about the origin of poppies, and the first thing I came across was the myth of Demeter.

The sacred symbol of Demeter — poppies — has long been associated with her; they grew among the wheat fields and were one of her attributes.

Persephone, the daughter of Demeter and Zeus, was abducted by Hades, the god of the underworld, while she was gathering flowers with the nymphs. After her daughter’s disappearance, Demeter wandered the earth in deep sorrow — for nine days and nights, as described in the "Homeric Hymn to Demeter" — and poppies are said to have grown where she walked.

In another version of the myth, it is said that Hypnos, the god of sleep, created poppies himself to comfort Demeter...

Now I’m beginning to understand that growing poppies in my garden for three years after my husband’s death —

was my unconscious farewell, my inner mourning.

Everything changes.

Tue, 10 Jun 2025 19:47:53 GMT

Everything changes.
Sometimes, change doesn’t come through events but through the way we see the world. This is a story about how a solitary tree became a mirror of inner movement.

I arrived in Germany earlier than planned.

My former husband had passed away, and my daughter flew to his funeral.

During the day, I kept myself busy. But in the evenings, I would quietly sit in the garden.

Spring was already in full bloom, and everything around me was fragrant with life.

My attention was drawn to a bare tree — one that didn’t seem to belong in this lush landscape.

I don’t know why, but I began photographing it every day.

It became something more than just a tree.

Perhaps a reminder.

Perhaps an answer to a question.

That everything changes.

Absolutely everything.

Mood. Light. Weather.

Our state of mind.

We change — with age, with experience, with loss.

Relationships shift.

Our perception of life transforms.

And that’s what life is:

A constant flow.

A never-ending “now” that soon becomes “yesterday.”

Sometimes, it feels like nothing is happening — like you’re standing still.

But that’s not true.

Movement is always happening, even when you can’t see it.

Sometimes, the only thing you need —

is simply to be.

A Gentle Touch Inside

Tue, 03 Jun 2025 20:46:42 GMT

Sometimes, a meeting with yourself doesn’t happen in the noise of life, but in the quiet of the morning — in a reflection, a movement, a touch.

Today, I want to share a moment that felt like seeing myself for the first time.

On my bedside table, in my bedroom, there is a small mirror.

Every morning, I wake up, absentmindedly brush my hair, and head to the kitchen to make coffee.

Only briefly do I glance at myself in the mirror while picking out what to wear — and then I disappear into the current of the day.

But this morning was different.

I woke up, sat on the edge of the bed — and held my gaze on my reflection in the mirror.

I began to really look.

At my shoulders, my arms, my back, my hips, my face.

I have no idea how much time passed.

But the longer I looked, the more clearly I began to feel something stir inside.

It was as if I were meeting my body all over again.

I wrapped my arms around myself, ran my fingers through my hair, covered my face with my hands.

There was something special in every movement, every touch.

It was a dialogue.

My body responded — without words.

With movement. Warmth. Presence.

I noticed how something shifts

when I hold my legs close,

when I cradle my foot in my hand,

when I hide my face in my palms — and quietly say to myself:

“I’m here. Don’t be afraid. I’m with you.”

And I was.

With all my pain, my tenderness, my frozen sadness, and my hope.

Fragile. Unguarded.

But there I was.

And then I felt it — my body was speaking to me.

Not as something separate.

Not as just a shape.

But as part of me: alive, wise, accepting, understanding.

Maybe these are the moments when we truly meet ourselves.

When we don’t turn away from our reflection.

When we hold our gaze.

When we stay.

When we truly see ourselves.

We live too fast.

We glance at the mirror — without really seeing.

Always rushing somewhere, slipping past the present moment.

But to truly know yourself, all you need to do is pause.

Look.

Really look.

Gently take yourself in.

Allow yourself to be — not perfect,

but just as you are.

To look not at what needs to be fixed —

but at what can be loved.

No one else can give you the closeness, the love, the support

that you can give yourself.

Because only you know what truly matters to you.

Only you know when it hurts.

Only you know what makes you feel truly alive.

And maybe, that quiet inner gaze is the first step —

toward yourself,

toward life,

toward love,

toward presence,

toward peace,

toward harmony

with yourself.

If life must end - only love endures.

183:912907392 (Yana Northen) — Wed, 28 May 2025 16:15:25 GMT

Reflections on life and death.

After the passing of my former husband — the father of my daughter

— I unexpectedly felt something stir deep inside me.

Even after all these years, after lives lived apart, something was gone.

And something remained.

This is part of my personal reflection.

When she returned from the funeral, the daughter brought home a small packet.

She placed it on the table and gently opened it, laying out its contents.

There were old photographs — childhood smiles, youthful faces — a soldier’s belt, and a wristwatch.

The silence in the room felt more intence than usual.

“This,” she said softly, “is all that’s left.”

The woman looked at these objects.

Something deep inside her tightened.

She had once loved this man. But over time, those feelings had worn thin and almost dissolved by the passing years.

After the divorce, the only thing that still connected them was their daughter.

Now, looking at the watch with its scratched glass, at the photographs where everyone looked so young, so happy, she suddenly thought:

What will remain of me?

Just days ago, she had watched a film — a story that asks the same quiet question already present inside her.

In the film, the main character asked:

“What is left of us when we die?”

And the answer came:

“We don’t vanish without a trace. We continue.”

Perhaps, years from now, someone will come across a torn journal page, a fragment of a teacup, the cracked face of a watch. Anything.

The woman smiled.

Because she understood — that’s the essence of it.

Life isn’t measured by its size. It’s measured by the traces we leave — in hearts, in memory, in the breath of others.

And if even a tiny piece of you remains somewhere in the world,

then you were here.

From My Body to Me

Thu, 15 May 2025 15:23:13 GMT

Sometimes the body speaks to us when we finally stop silencing its voice.

A Letter from My Body

Hello my love.

I am your body.
I’ve been wanting to have an honest conversation with you for a long time. And now, more than anything, I want to be heard.

I remember how you closed your eyes — not because you were tired, but because you didn’t want to see certain things. You didn’t want to notice what hurt you, what made you anxious, what was quietly breaking you from the inside.
I felt how you pretended to be calm when, in truth, everything inside was shaking.

I remember the feather touching your lips — light, almost weightless — wrapping you in its softness when you longed to scream from pain and helplessness.
You learned to stay silent. You learned not to complain.
You’ve carried so much unspoken truth all these years.

You’ve always been gentle and kind with others. You forgave. You understood.
But you never asked for help — even when you needed it the most.

You were hard on yourself. Demanding.
I felt how you denied yourself so many things.
How you felt ashamed of your weakness, how you hid your tears.

I remember it all.
And I’m still here.
I hold no resentment. I supported you then — and I will support you again and again.

But now, please — be more attentive to me.
I want you to truly see me.
To speak with me.
To listen to how I breathe.

There is so much I can tell you.
So much I can give you.

I am your home.
I am you.

— Your body

What We See Is a Reflection of What We Feel.

Tue, 08 Apr 2025 15:23:13 GMT

Sometimes a fork looks like a mountain.
And a vase — like a monument.
But really, it’s just a fork. Just a vase.

I take photos every day — often of ordinary, almost invisible things that surround me. At the end of the week, I looked back at everything I had captured and gathered those images into a collage.

And only then did I realize: this wasn't just a collection of objects.
It was a reflection of my inner state.

Our photographs often show more than we realize.
They reveal where our attention goes, what draws us in, what worries us, what we think about, and what we search for.

Sometimes a simple object — under a certain light — appears enormous.
In one photo, a fork looked gigantic just because of how the light fell on it.
And I thought: we often give things too much weight. But in truth, it’s simpler than that.
Our thoughts do the same — they magnify moments, ideas, fears.
Everything seems bigger than it really is. It’s human.

This collage helped me understand what had been truly on my mind last week.
It gave shape to a quiet feeling that had been living inside me.
And that brought clarity.

Lines in the photos flow into one another, just like our thoughts and emotions.
One leads to another. One experience blends into the next.
Nothing exists in isolation. Everything is connected — in life, in memory, in perception.

And maybe that’s what this work is really about:
To slow down.
To look more closely at what’s already here.
To learn to see — and to let go.
Let it pass. Let it flow.

6b396736b6b24fb681f3f8d56583d44d

I Was Little Too

Building a bridge between past and future.

To each, their own pace.

Thoughts on slowing down, creative work, and the year behind me.

Absent Presence

When the phone becomes the closest thing we hold.

“In the Flow of Time — London Reflections”

How time, memory, and light intertwined on the day of my exhibition.

There Is a Whole Life in Each Day

A Grandmother’s Reflection on Time and Love.

The Space of Waiting

When silence turns into images.

Freedom within constraints.

We do not choose to be born and we cannot escape death. This two are predestined. However for the space in between exists complete freedom .

The Shape of the Invisible

Capturing the Invisible

While time flies

In the flight of days — to find your inner compass.

Lasting Light

A Bridge Between Past and Present

What Enters the Field of Vision

A flower from the garden, a memory from the past, a quiet layering of time.

Grief in Bloom

Grief in Bloom

Everything changes.

Everything changes. Sometimes, change doesn’t come through events but through the way we see the world. This is a story about how a solitary tree became a mirror of inner movement.

A Gentle Touch Inside

If life must end - only love endures.

From My Body to Me

What We See Is a Reflection of What We Feel.

Everything changes.
Sometimes, change doesn’t come through events but through the way we see the world. This is a story about how a solitary tree became a mirror of inner movement.