There are moments when time folds in on itself... when the past, the present, and what has yet to come all sit together, breathing the same forest air.
That’s how it felt at Between the Rivers.
Each morning began with the call of a conch horn rippling through the trees. It didn’t just signal breakfast or a meeting... it gathered us. Like threads pulled into place on a loom, we were woven together.
On the first morning, as we circled up in the meadow, Patrick, founder of Between the Rivers, told us, “Focus on what brings us together.”
And we did.
We were strangers at first... some barefoot, some bundled in wool... each carrying our own story. But under the sky and among the drums, dust, and fires, we became something more. A temporary village. A living memory. A quiet return to what it means to be deeply human.
I spent most of my week beneath the shade of a canvas tent, surrounded by people who felt like kindred spirits.Carolyn, who taught the coat-making class, sat at the center of that circle. Her presence was grounding... part wit, part wisdom, all heart. She created the coat pattern herself, and taught it with the patience of someone who understands how to bring more than fabric together.
The blanket I used to make my coat was from 1954... a thick, beautiful relic from the Canadian Civil Defense. The buttons came from Carolyn’s own grandmother. The straps are vintage leather, weathered with stories of their own. And the stitch holding it all together? Carolyn invented that, too. It creates a different pattern on each side like two stories told at once, each equally strong.
I made that coat seated on the three-legged stool I’d built the year before at this very gathering. And in every stitch... through wool, through story, through overworked fingers... I was threading something bigger than myself.
That coat is now one of my most cherished creations.
Carolyn’s tent became a sanctuary. A sewing circle where hands worked, stories spilled, and tears mixed with laughter. It’s hard to describe how deeply moving it was to be wrapped in that warmth. How healing it is to sit in silence while someone else’s grief or joy is laid bare beside you. But that’s what happened there. Again and again.
And it wasn’t just Carolyn passing her legacy forward. All around me, people offered fragments of their history to complete strangers. Trusting us to hold them gently, even for a moment.
In the leatherworking class, we used tools passed down from our instructor’s grandfather. You could feel his mark in every groove and curve.
In the card weaving class, Osage orange-dyed yarn (made from a beloved elder’s personal stash) was set out for anyone to use. A cherished possession shared generously.
Even the saplings in the meadow told stories.
Carolyn brought them, tiny Gary oak trees, no more than a foot tall, descended from one of our nation’s oldest and most significant oaks. The original acorns were gathered by a man she considered a father figure, now passed. She grew his gift into new life and brought it here, planting them in the soil between our footsteps.
We may not live long enough to see them drop acorns of their own, but still… they are here. Rooted. Reaching. A quiet promise to the future.
Every day, barefoot children ran through the fields in packs. Laughter rose like smoke. Sound baths greeted us each morning. Story circles and fiddles filled the air by night. Music was everywhere. Guitars, flutes, and fiddles echoing across the hills.
On my way to my Pine needle basket class I heard “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” float from a neighboring camp. It became the unofficial song of my week... joyful, silly, and full of light.
My partially finished basket is now filled with pigments from ancient minerals and a jar of black walnut ink. Treasures I can’t wait to experiment with in the studio.
Dinners were served each night by volunteers. One evening I joined them, serving smiles alongside food and feeling more connected with every ladleful.
And each morning, I’d find Digger already tending the fire, greeting the day with quiet warmth and a steady presence that reminded me how simple kindness can change everything.
Though I missed the closing ceremony, known lovingly as "the crying circle", this writing is my own farewell.
My own thank you.
To Jack and Tracie, who welcomed me at their fire. To the teachers who shared tools, stories, and trust. To Carolyn, who gave me more than instruction, she gave me a legacy to carry. To Patrick for creating this space for us to gather. To every soul who made this gathering what it was.
Between the Rivers isn’t something you attend. It’s something that shifts you.
I came home with hands sore from working and a heart stretched wide open.
I came home more grounded.
More whole.
More human.
Each time I return, I shed a little of the noise of civilization and sink a little deeper into what matters.
We don’t just carry back wool coats or leather journals or baskets.
We carry stories.
We carry joy. Grief. Laughter. Lineage.
We carry the fingerprints of every person who shared even a sliver of themselves with us.
As Hazen Audel said, “This is probably what will save the world.”
And I believe it.
Now, I find myself in a quiet space, reflecting. Wondering how to gather all of this... the texture, the memory, the feeling and shape it into a single painting.
That piece will be auctioned to support the infrastructure of Between the Rivers, in the spirit of giving back to the place and people who gave me so much.
Because this, this right here, is what Art for Wild Places is all about.
As the Botanical Alchemists said in my very first interview for this project,
“People protect what they connect with.”
And this... this was sacred.
Connected.
Wild.
And so, so beautiful.