I tried to save the tree. The "magic tree" as the kids called it. But it died. The tree that was the canopy for tea parties, secret meetings and building fairy houses, returned to its graceful skeleton and I kept it.

The tree became a metaphor for the passage of time, the children who played under it grew up, the chapter of raising children over. The trunk rotted and it fell over. I saved the pieces, but it broke again and again. The futility of saving all the fragments in hopes of reattaching them became apparent after a few years.

I looked at the tree fragments anew and constructed individual framed pieces around their unique properties. They morphed into bones and I followed them there, creating relics in homage to motherhood and childhood.

I have always been intrigued by relics: teeth, bones, bits of cloth touched by saints, a bit of hair housed in a beautiful container. These are my relics—the saved and sacred fragments of my life as a mother, a woman, an artist and wife. My family has always inspired my art and been a catalyst for deep spiritual reflection.