Begin with the End in Mind: The Forest of My Wild Heart

It was one of those perfect hiking days—sunny, but not too warm. The air was crisp, refreshing, and alive. My friend and I were walking along the Cataract Trail on Mount Tamalpais, deep in conversation. As usual, I was stopping every so often to take pictures, drawn to the textures and patterns of the forest.

And then, suddenly, my whole body stopped.

I was magnetized.

There, in front of me, was a fallen tree, its roots upended, twisting and turning in wild, intricate lines. Something about it held me completely still—its presence, its strength, the sheer energy it carried. I'm a sucker for tree roots. They have a visceral, almost electric quality to them. Their line work, their structure, the way they hold onto the earth even after being torn from it—there’s something about them that feels deeply connected to me. And this particular tree was mystical. Sunlight streamed through the forest behind it, creating a glow that made the space feel like something out of a fairytale.

I kid you not, I was bursting with excitement like a child. My poor friend—so patient with me as I excitedly took picture after picture, unable to walk away.

Looking back, I can see why this moment led me to create my first large-scale textile piece. I didn’t just want to capture that tree—I wanted to live in that space. But even more than the physicality of it, I was responding to something beyond. That’s where intuition comes in. That’s where creation starts. It’s not always easy to explain. Do you know what I mean?

The Creation Process

From one of those photographs, I set out to make a work of art. I had no idea what colors I would use, what details or patterns would emerge. I just knew I had to start.

So, I threw open my boxes of fabric, pinned up the image, and sketched it out loosely—just to get a feel for the composition. And then I began.

Like a painter mixing colors, my palette was fabric. My scissors became my brush, cutting shapes, pulling together reclaimed textiles and my own original fabric designs. I layered. I wove. I covered. I stepped back. I referenced the photo. Over time, though, I found myself looking at it less and less. The piece had taken on a life of its own.

At that point, the conversation was no longer between me and the image—it was between me and the artwork itself.

What did it need next?

Ahh, that ugly green fabric I almost threw away—perfect. I knew there was a reason I saved it.

This is how my process often works. Not always, of course, but this method—beginning with the end in mind—grounds me. It’s a lot like life, actually.

An in progress shot before sewing.

Art and Life: A Shared Process

You’ve probably heard the phrase begin with the end in mind before. Stephen Covey made it famous in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. But for me, it’s not about productivity—it’s about the way I move through creativity, and the way I (try) to move through life.

Having a vision matters. But it’s not about control or perfection. Always easier said than done! When I started this piece, I had no idea exactly what it would look like. I let it reveal itself, piece by piece. If I tried too hard to imitate the image exactly, the work felt forced. When I let go, when I followed the organic flow of creation, that’s when the magic happened.

Maybe that’s why some art feels alive, while other art feels stiff—because one is guided by intuition, while the other is held back by expectation.

It’s the same in life.

Begin with the end in mind—but don’t get stuck on perfection. Don’t get stuck on a rigid idea of what the path should look like. Because the truth is, it will change. You will make mistakes. There were so many times I held up a fabric piece, thought it would work, and then—nope. Back to the drawing board. Each choice created a new dilemma to solve. And eventually, you reach that moment where you have to step back and say:

"Hey, I think you’re done."

That’s always the hardest part for me. Like a child so in love with painting that they keep adding more and more—until suddenly, the paper tears apart. I can relate to that.

Make it stand out

If you feel stuck in your creative process—or even in some part of your life—try this:

1. Get a clear image of what you want. Not just visually, but emotionally. Find something that makes your body feel something—excitement, joy, connection. Write about it. Take a picture. Sketch it.

2. Start moving toward it, step by step. You don’t need to know the whole path. Just begin.

3. Let the process guide you. Adjust. Layer. Cut away what doesn’t work.

4. Trust the momentum. Keep going, even when you’re unsure. Action leads the way.

And most of all—allow for change.

That’s where the beauty (and surprise) is.