Patchwork words: How I Create from Silence

I’ve been thinking a lot about words lately—how we use them, how they come to us, and how they hold space for what we can’t quite say. Mary Oliver’s poem Praying offers a beautiful doorway into this reflection. She writes that it doesn’t have to be the blue iris—it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones. Just pay attention, then patch.

That line has stayed with me: just pay attention, then patch.

There’s something powerful in this idea of patching—of gathering what’s already there and weaving it into something new. Not to impress. Not to explain. But to honour the silence in which another voice may speak.

I think of patching as a creative mindset. It’s how I approach both language and visual expression. Taking fragments—words, textures, colours, memories—and allowing them to be assembled without needing to be elaborate or whole. The art is in the connection. In making space for something to emerge naturally, like wildflowers pushing through cracks in concrete.

Flowers, too, have found a home in this process. Flora, bloom, blossom—ephemeral jewels that serve as vessels of memory and scent. They link us to places, people, and seasons we hold dear. Flowers in my work are more than decorative—they’re imaginative symbols, portals, and love letters to what is fleeting.

Patchwriting, as I’ve come to call it, isn’t about perfection. It’s about assembling. Making temporary links. Stitching fragments. Playing with texture, language, and form. Whether it’s paint on canvas or words on a page, I’m creating a mosaic—a kind of visual or poetic collage that honours beauty without needing to fully explain it.

Patching is also a way to restore. To mend. To reframe. The creative process doesn’t always begin with a grand vision—it often begins with small pieces, noticed and held with care. Through this process, new meaning emerges. Not forced, but revealed.

There’s a quietness in this kind of making. A silence in which another voice may speak. Creativity, in this way, becomes less about output and more about listening. It’s a way of being. A form of attention. A practice of presence.

This approach has become central to how I make art. I no longer begin with fixed outcomes or grand statements—I begin with fragments. Colours, marks, memories, sensations. Like words patched together in a mosaic, I gather and arrange visual elements in ways that feel intuitive, fluid, and responsive. Each brushstroke is a kind of stitching. Each layer is part of a quiet conversation.

Rather than trying to explain or control the outcome, I allow space for the work to evolve—much like assembling a patchwork. It’s not about making something polished or impressive; it’s about making something true. A gesture. A moment. A trace of attention.

In this way, my art becomes a kind of visual poem—stitched together from silence, shaped by presence, and open to the unknown.