I’ve claimed old “Cliff things” over the years and woven them into my studio and life—at first as a way to move through grief, and always as a way to honor his presence.
Cliff had so many tire chains draped from the stout branches of the trees around his cabin, it was as if the forest itself wore his handiwork. I’ve since used those chains to adorn not only my studio, but also his cabin—now a vacation rental—and his old sawmill, which is slowly being transformed into an office and workshop for Raymond.
The curvy tractor wrenches are a collection of my own—gathered slowly over time, but with new devotion during the quiet solitude of Covid.
Crystals and rust. Stones and glass. Spirit and steel.
But the most precious tradition of all—the one that still makes my heart catch—is the springtime hanging plant.
Every spring, Cliff used to bring a plant to brighten the front of my studio—his quiet way of showing up, of tending. He’d hook it onto the frilly, wrought iron hanger outside my door, like clockwork.
The first spring after he passed, my mother-in-law arrived with a plant in hand and a card that simply said the plant was from Cliff.
I cried. Hard.
That spring, I gently hung the old timber sling hook—one Cliff once used—onto the frilly one. Then I hung the “Cliff plant” from it.
Some gestures are more than tradition.
They’re echoes of love…
