It always comes back to glyphs for me.  Writing.  The written word. The symbols we use to write.  The compelling mystery of language. And here it is in nature.  The other side of the stone has more glyphs.

When I create my fiber art, I have to include the written word.  It’s so central for me, so essential.  I don’t remember when I learned to read; it’s as if I were born to read.  And there’s magic of a sort in being able to perform — yes, somehow, it’s performance — the act of writing.  Etching, scratching, drawing, pulling, pushing the mark onto paper or fiber or sand or wet concrete, or chalk on dry concrete, or dye or charcoal onto a stone wall, concocted ink onto papyrus or skin, the printing press onto precious paper, the carving into the trunk of a tree: I was here, I spoke, listen, remember, speak again!