What moves in stillness

About

Squirrels and birds ventured closer. Cats, frogs, and newts appeared. The grass was left to grow taller. Their presence felt tender, whimsical, fleeting.

What was once protected had become permeable.
And the space she left behind was not empty—it was attentive.

I had always connected with nature through her.
Now, the visitors to our garden seem to fill her place,
allowing me to carry on the conversation—with the earth, with life, with what moves quietly between.

This body of work reflects on that quiet shift:
how absence can open the door to unexpected forms of life.
These drawings are an act of listening—of noticing what returns when we let go.

With my hands, I listened to the invisible energy that flows through the natural world—
to the spirits, the presences we sense but cannot name.
Drawing becomes a way of feeling,
of tracing what cannot be held,
of letting imagination unfold within the blank spaces.

Our garden has become a liminal zone—
where what has gone lingers,
and what is coming waits to be seen.

In the pause, something begins.
In what is not said, something stirs.

Grief is not a void,
but a soft threshold—
where memory, nature, and new life overlap.