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Not all memories are soft. Not all are painful.

Some arrive like whispers; others like storms. But all of them—whether joyful, bitter, fleeting, or formative—live inside us. And somehow, when we create, they surface. Not always in recognizable ways. Often as colour. As texture. As gesture.

I don’t chase memories in my work.

They come when they are ready.

And when they do, they move through wool, thread, and paper like an invisible thread stitching the past into the present.

Memory is not a museum. It’s a collection of books in a library—a library made of soul.

Each book is written not only by us, but by the surrounding players in our life—those who passed through, those who stayed, those who left a mark.

Some memory-books are thin and worn, others thick and weighty. Some shelved within reach, others hidden in the shadows of our inner archive.

We all carry a private collection.

There are pages we return to with joy, like old letters full of sunshine. And there are volumes we’ve shut tightly, too heavy to open—until life gently asks us to.

Even bitter memories have their place.

To pretend otherwise is to reject a part of our becoming.

Some of the most honest artworks I’ve made were born from a memory I tried to forget—but couldn’t. And when I finally allowed it space, not to glorify it, but to accept its truth with dignity—it transformed. Not into beauty, but into meaning.

Even the collective griefs we carry—those moments of injustice or loss that reach us from afar—become part of this inner library.

Some memories are not personal, but they still live inside us. They settle into our awareness and quietly change the texture of how we remember the past. Not every memory is ours alone.

And just as memory reshapes itself over time, so does our understanding of what we’ve created.

It’s strange how even something I wrote just days ago can open a new door when I return to it. A line I thought I understood suddenly feels different. A phrase reveals something I hadn’t noticed before. This is the spiral of memory. It doesn’t repeat—it deepens.

Our creative process does the same.

Felt-making has taught me that memory doesn’t always speak in words.

Sometimes it’s a colour that feels like dusk in a childhood garden.

Or the way fibres stretch, reminding me of the patterned carpets that once grounded my world.

There’s a kind of silent remembering that lives in materials.

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

My felt pieces, my drawings, even my stitched abstractions—they hold rooms within them. Rooms made of memory. Not literal memories, but emotional ones. Intuitive ones. Some filled with light. Others dim, but still dignified.

I don’t try to recreate the past.

I let it speak—when it wants to, how it wants to.

Sometimes, all I do is listen.

Other times, I stitch. Layer. Rearrange.

And in doing so, I don’t just make art. I make peace.

We carry stories that have no words.

And sometimes, they become fabric.

Sometimes, they become silence.

And sometimes, if we are lucky, they become art.