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Some of us were never meant to move in straight lines.

We don’t climb ladders. We loop. We meander. We double back. We carry multiple selves at once—artist and architect, maker and planner, wanderer and weaver. And rather than choosing between them, we let them co-exist. Intertwine. Inform each other.

This is what I call spiral living.

Not chaos. Not indecision. But a gentler geometry of growth.

For years, I practiced art alongside my profession in landscape architecture. At times, I thought I had to pick one path, commit to a single lane. But the more I worked, the more I realized: my life isn’t linear. It bends. It breathes. It calls me back, again and again, to new beginnings that aren’t really new—just deeper.

The spiral doesn’t reject discipline. It simply accepts mystery.

In 2017, I found myself yearning for something more grounded and tactile.

Painting and monoprinting, while still meaningful, had begun to feel repetitive—like I was circling the same language without discovering anything new. I longed for a material that spoke in a different voice. Something that would challenge me. So I turned to clay.

Without formal training, I taught myself ceramics. I loved the stillness it required. The burning unpredictability of the kiln. The transformation of glaze under heat. The way the fired pieces rang when tapped, like tiny bells of survival.

This wasn’t a detour—it was a necessity. I wasn’t leaving painting behind. I was spiraling outward, discovering a new layer of myself.

In recent months, felt-making has claimed my hands and heart. Wool isn’t new—it’s ancient. It carries memory, story, movement. It reminds me of the landscapes I come from, of woven traditions and sacred geometries. It’s a return, not a shift.

And in this return, I’ve realized that I don’t just follow materials—I follow a rhythm. A tempo that isn’t forced. It reveals itself. Slowly. Truthfully.

“The soul is an abode. And by remembering the houses that have sheltered us, we learn to dwell within ourselves.” — Gaston Bachelard

Each medium—clay, wool, ink—is a room I’ve inhabited. And in each, I’ve met a different version of myself. None more valid than the other. All necessary.

This post isn’t a manifesto against linearity. It’s a reminder that creativity—like life—isn’t one-directional. It loops. It spirals. And for those of us who have balanced art with another profession, or carried doubt about not having “one path,” the spiral offers permission.

It also offers something deeper: self-understanding or self-discovery.

In Farsi, we call this خودشناسی.

The kind of knowing that makes life lighter on our shoulders.

When we understand our nature, we stop fighting its rhythm.

We let the spiral carry us.

If you’re at the beginning of your creative journey—or returning to it after years away—don’t rush to define yourself. Don’t worry if your path feels winding. It is. That’s not failure. That’s form.

You don’t have to explain your shifts.

You don’t have to choose once and for all.

You just have to listen—and keep going.

Every time I change mediums, I’m not starting over.

I’m beginning deeper.

The spiral is not a detour.

It’s the shape of my becoming.