How a Sign is found, not designed.
I didn't start here. My path wound through design, then further still — into anatomy, studying the body properly, how we're actually built, long before I ever thought about how we're held together by meaning. The mind came next, unprompted — psychology, the quieter mechanics of how people actually change. More a real, lasting interest than a formal one, but it shaped how I see people all the same. Body, then mind — spirituality was the next question, the same search carried further: what holds a person together, underneath all of it. For a long time I followed every thread it offered.
Most of it turned out to be noise. What stayed was something steadier, more rooted — in the beginning was the word.
The Signs themselves started almost by accident, during a long stretch of stillness, when I became absorbed in macramé — knotting intention into cord, one line at a time. From there I began drawing signs, first built from letters. Eventually the letters fell away.
Now a Sign arrives the same way each time: I close my eyes, repeat the word or the intention like a quiet meditation, and the shape appears — not designed, found.
The knotting by hand I've had to leave behind; this work is global now, made at a distance, built in geometry instead of cord. But the process underneath hasn't changed. I'm still listening for the same thing, just translating it differently.
Every Sign still begins the same way it always has — in stillness, before it has a shape.