As I weave or stitch, I am most curious about the interstices. The void between the warp and weft or the thread and clay is where the essence of the form resides. As an immigrant, citizen of two countries but an outsider in both, I interpret this invisible place in code. I map my home land I left behind with dreams never realized. I speak of the country whose language I have spoken and taught for decades only to leave me feeling voiceless. I am the closest to being “home” and heard when I express myself through fiber and mud – stitching clay, dyeing thread and weaving cloth. The desire for building my own nest has driven me to paying close attention to what is around me: the shape, texture, color, symbolism and cultural associations that abound between the roots and canopy of old growth. The language of nature is not grounded in syllables, words and sentences, yet I want to record its silent communication. Indeed, I want to tell about the intricacies of interconnectedness of us all as I weave myself through and into the landscape to finally arrive home.