Tree of Life

I didn’t have a set plan when I started this piece. I rarely do. What I had was a precut Tree of Life substrate and a collection of materials I’ve gathered over the years: beads, brooches, baubles . . . and flowers. So. Many. Flowers.

At first, I imagined filling the entire canopy with blooms. But as I began laying them out, I quickly realized it would become cluttered – a colorful hodgepodge with no thread to hold it together.

So I began with the trunk. I had a stash of tiny rectangular metal beads with beautiful variation in tone and luster. They were the perfect size and structure to suggest rough bark. A small snake brooch nestled, comfy and camouflaged, at the base of the tree. A nod to the Tree of Knowledge in Eden? Or simply a reminder that growth often requires shedding what no longer fits.

Spiral elements in brown and copper tones wound through the trunk and branches. They felt like knots in the wood, but also like movement. Growth that expands outward in cycles rather than straight lines.

When a large patinaed bronze heart found its place at the center of the canopy, something shifted. The process stopped feeling like arranging materials and began to feel like a partnership. The heart created a center from which everything else could grow. It began to guide the colors, the lines, and the radiating flow of the piece.

As it took shape, I began to wonder – had I seen this tree before? In my own story, Fallen, a small heart-shaped leaf tumbles from the Dreaming Tree and into her adventure. Was this the Dreaming Tree?

A deconstructed silver bracelet provided enough leaves to encircle the bronze heart, giving it the look of flame. Not so much a religious icon to me, but a reminder of the quiet power that comes from living a heart-centered life.

I still wanted the canopy to bloom, but more selectively. Glazed leaves from my brief foray into ceramics joined glass and metal foliage. Winged creatures emerged from my collection of brooches and beads: butterflies, a hummingbird, a dragonfly, a bee. And, of course, an owl. I smiled when the owl’s outstretched wings fit perfectly into one of the cut-out spaces, as though it had been waiting for that exact perch.

With everything laid out and rearranged until the tree and I were both satisfied, I began the slow work of stitching it to life. For weeks, I worked section by section, letting strands of seed beads define contours, create shadow and light, and emphasize movement. I let each creature tell me where it wanted to land.

Now that the piece is finished and hanging on a gallery wall, I see that it carries a story I didn’t consciously set out to tell.

For me, it speaks of a life rooted in the heart, of spiraling growth, of wisdom found in unlikely places. Of shedding skins. Of blooming and beginning again. Of listening. Listening to the owl in the quiet, to the hum of small wings, and to the whisper of change.

But perhaps more important is the story it holds for you.

If you could sit beneath this tree, leaning against her trunk, what would you long to shed? What is ready to bloom? And what small, winged voice might be waiting to speak?