I remember when I made the frame for the tiny pear. Some might call it scrap, but I think the aged and weathered wood deserves a better name. Yes, it has lived before, but that doesn’t mean it’s “used.” I like to think it’s just beginning again. So I cut the “becoming” wood. I sand it. And I’m not disturbed by the hole in one of the pieces. It is not a deterrent, but an opportunity. Because wasn’t it always a compliment? I heard my grandma say it. Certainly my mother. “That’s so becoming,” she said with a smile. Often to me. Just as often in the mirror. So of course I learned that beauty was a state of becoming. 

I found the tiny rope to go through the hole. Attached the handmade paper. Wrote the words – “still life.” And didn’t it describe it all, the pear, the wood, you, me. All of this becoming. These lives we are living. Changing. Growing. It’s all so…very…beautiful.