On top of a hill in rural in Nova Scotia, where life moves slowly and time has a sense of permanence, where weather is reflected in moods and one’s temperament is fused with slow changing seasons, I began to make things. I made things from materials I could find. In my home, in the garden, in the woods, things that were easily accessible to me. I made a doll, made with a nylon stocking stuffed with cotton balls and embroidered eyes, I made withered faces carved from apples that grew in the neighbouring orchard. I also collected things. Dried flowers, teeth from an old cow’s skull I found in the nearby field were tucked next to my own teeth in my homemade jewellery box, strings of apple seeds and of pepper seeds were treasured and admired. I don’t know why I made things, and I don’t know why I collected things, but I did, and I still do. Perhaps they hold secrets, or stories or memories. Perhaps the act of making holds time still. Holds it long enough to capture fleeting intangible things, like emotions, and wraps those things up, covers them, packages them, processess them and re-presents them.