More than anything, death has defined us. It has been a set of expert hands molding a lump of clay. It has turned so much of our shapelessness into beauty.
It has been hard. It has been ugly. It has led the most transformative shifts in our lives. It has been the spark for something different. Something new.
2009. 2017. 2019.
My dad. Our son. A friend.
An aneurysm. A death with no answers. A heart attack.
All stories end and some don't even have a chance to begin.
We are the ones to retell. The ones to keep our history alive. To pass along the significance of a life through the shared experience of story. These are things to hold on to.
My dad died without warning. Our son died without warning. Our friend died without warning. A garage floor. A belly. A driveway.
Their stories are now being told by others. We have a responsibility to keep them alive through our collective memories. We are their vessels.
This is the spark for WHEEL HOUSE.
My dad was many things. A demolition expert. A farmer. A giving, selfless, and troubled man. A man who gave me fun and respite during a confusing childhood. My best friend.
Our son felt like the wind. Strong, steady, and guiding me through the journey from pregnancy to death. He came to me in Scotland. He felt like Scotland itself. Wild, free, and deep.
Our friend was a master beekeeper and blessed storyteller. A man who kept himself humble and hardworking and in love with what he did. His activism was buried in his bones.
These are all voices we will never hear again or at all. We want to continue their legacy by honoring those around us with stories to tell.
Part of Wheel House will be this: the recording of story. We will share legacy from people we love, people we admire, and people we don't know. We will preserve. We will ask about their life, their work, their wheel house.
Benjamin. Callum. Wolfgang.
Our loves. Our pain. Our spark. (recitation in Callum's garden)
