In the fall of 2018, I began having a string of rejections that would continue for nearly five years. At the beginning, I thought it was the usual pattern, but never had I anticipated it would go on for so long nor the reasons why. 

Two years later, after a couple more dozen rejection letters, it finally got the best of me. It wasn't so much not being able to land an exhibit or a residency, but it was in parallel with the state of the union and where we were headed as a nation. If a good percentage of our citizenry had no care about what was good for the community around them by getting vacinated, then what did that mean for global warming, and ultimately, why in the world was I wasting my time creating art. For the next six months I slipped into a deep depression, unable and unwilling to go into my studio even to "sweep the floor."

Because I was unable to work, I then began feeling guilty for not working. I spiraled downward.

Mountain biking has always been my drug of choice, my antidote, for keeping me sane. Now more than ever, my cycling sojourns each day became my respite. One day, while riding my bike down a trail, I noticed several logs at the bottom or a ravine that had been cut by the Forest Service. These logs had once stood vertically, part of a thirty-six-inch diameter ponderosa pine that helped shade the ravine, until a fire swept through. Using these logs, I decided I would create my own sculpture park folded inside the ravine. For the next six months, I isolated myself within this small canyon. I stood the logs up vertically and then scraped, cleaned and sanded each log. Unable to work in my home studio, the ravine became my refuge, a studio I could socially distance in, away from the weight of the world. Several times each week, I made the forty-five minute hike into the ravine to be physically present and to work.

In the spring of 2021, I realized that I wanted to preserve at least one of the logs I had been working with. I knew that the likelihood of a flash flood would sweep through the raavine and destroy my work. On June 14, my daughter Chiara helped me carry out the hollowed charred log that had once stood as the base and trunk of the tree. A month later on July 13, dark clouds built over Mt. Elden. That night waters tore down the ravine carrying away the logs, ruining my sculpture park. A month later on August 17, the trail was completely gouged out by a second flash flood.

Although the rejection letters continued for another two years, the ravine had become my refuge, a place of solace and seclusion. The ravine and all that it offered, and specifically this tree had done its part, to heal and mend - its largeness passing through me.