The Field

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The Field is where everything meets — the tree line, the open air, the hum that connects the quiet parts of my life.
It’s not a workspace or a gallery.
It’s the ground that ties the branches together — the space between creation and rest.

When I say the field, I don’t mean the kind with fences or crops.
It’s the clearing behind the woods I grew up in on 46th Place in Cleveland — the border where trees gave way to open sky.
That’s where we built our forts.
Not houses, not platforms — just steps nailed into trunks, a rope here, a branch there, a climb into somewhere higher.
The trees themselves were the structure.
We didn’t need walls.
The air did the holding.

Those early climbs taught me how to see space as part of design — not what you build inside it, but what it opens in you.
That same sense guides everything here.
This field is a living intersection: the work, the wind, the systems, the people, all moving through one another without needing to belong to any single form.

Some paths are worn from use.
Others are barely visible.
The Field stays open so new directions can form.

Visitors come and go.
Friends, collaborators, wanderers.
Some stay close to the tree, some walk their own circles farther out.
There’s room for all of it.
The only rule is presence — to arrive fully, even if only for a moment.

If you’ve landed here, breathe.
The Field will show you where to go next — or not.
Sometimes standing still is enough.

 Maistros — human first, always.