For me, the practice of making is discovery, a journey, participating in something alive that I can't quite explain. I imagine it to be like a silvery, thready, coursing river that is always flowing in and out, around and perhaps through everything, you can find it anywhere and stick to it, allowing yourself to be carried away and begin conjuring with your limbs, an odd sort of swimming or dance.
A place to play, heal, dip in, submerge or go to sit on the boundary and gaze, or to simply remain still.
Allowing thoughts to come and go similar to that of the practice of meditation, expanding, slowing and changing direction.
An uncovering or rediscovering of something that may have been intentionally or unintentionally covered up.
World building, perhaps trying to find ways to steel oneself and others, human and non-human in assisting in traversing through times ahead.
Nodes of communication, which can be shared and built upon by the various countless other voices. Stitching into other overlapping non-art fields and heeding to what morphologies arise.