Years ago, in what felt like a shamanic journeyman meditation exercise with Janet Broderick, I found a trunk during a long travel. The imagined trunk, slowly opened with longing and care, was filled with greens of so many textures spilling over each other in lapping leaves and curved branches. It was a pre-covid moment where, in real life, Chris and I spent far too much time on the road to have houseplants, and our store and studio lacked the leaves and life that more location-based stability can aquire. The trunks contents were to point to our deepest longings, and over time, I found that to mean a great deal. In the two years that have followed, our bedroom has become a house plant haven and the shop bursts with greens. Greens and plants are a gorgeous way to begin to see how textures, within the same palette, combine into magical story telling -- the way one layer of small leaf crawls up into larger forms. The way a linear drape comes down the ear, or the neck, into it's next explosion of form.