Beauty doesn't come out of the pen, it travels through it, weaving through the waves of memory and vision, arriving on the page. I'm both proud of these pages and excited to share them in one continuous unannotated flow. Explanations and Expansions are shared in previous posts on my journal, but for the first time, we get to see one layer of everything at this stage of the development of my multi-part woven composition, 'At The Edge of The World' which starts with the beautiful 'Silver Shore'.

Today I went to church, and instead of there being a sermon, there were readings by two of the children, contemporary worship songs, and the wrapping of gift hampers for one of the organisations that we support, a womens' shelter in Rathmines. While everyone sang, I sat, sometimes joining in, all the while drawing outlines and swirls, grateful for the space to ask a question I'm not sure of the answer to: Why did creation emerge from the great swirl, why was it formed, if not for love?

Language has limits, which I was reminded of yesterday when I said something along the lines of, "I hate when you do that". When I used the form "you", I meant "one", or more accurately "I/me", as in, "I hate when you stub your toe", meaning, "I hate when I stub my toe", and as I realised I'd caused insult, I suddenly realised I had accidentally been criticising everyone around me when I was trying to show empathy.

Moving further into the question of how we remember the dead, this week's journal has begun to expand on and explore the concept of monuments to our lost loved ones. When a friend, who was a graffiti artist and a tagger passed away, a whole world of people memorialised him on walls. His name is a secret, and although these walls are there for all to see, only those who knew him can truly see the stories they tell and the parts of him they celebrate.

It's been more than two years since 'Drowning in Enough', a vision of the overwhelming sufficiency of grace in the midst of surrender, but it wasn't until after I wove 'Dark Hedges', when I went with some friends to go 'bouldering' in the sea, just a few miles north of that broken tunnel of yew in north County Antrim, that I tasted foamy saltwater, got caught in a current, pulled under, and couldn't catch my breath, that I realised what it really meant to drown.

The Walk: It was my third time there, four miles past the edge of the world...

My First Time
Although I'd visited many times, even taking DART journeys solely for the sensory pleasure of those moments when to one side of the train, the sea opens up to a horizonless sky, I'd never ventured past the shoreline.

rom July to August 2013, I wove 'Dark Hedges'. 

One year later we arrive 'At The Edge of The World', a new body of work, of which 'Silver Shore' is my first piece. In the past few journal posts, you'll have learnt that the basic form of that work actually borrows its essential constructs from this new one, arriving later, but beginning before.This journal post too began before the others, and I'm posting it now, accepting that only the piece itself can tell you all of its story, and the best I can do is introduce it.