Hey there Reader, From the Trail: What the Trees Hold There’s a place off the path where the trees grow close, too close, almost, as if they’re holding each other up. I’ve gone there more times than I can count when grief has come through. The forest doesn’t rush sorrow. It doesn’t try to fix it. It just holds it. Wood has always done the same for me. When I burn during grief, I’m not making art, I’m marking something. Giving form to the invisible ache. Sometimes, burning is the only way I...