Beneath the surface, where light quiets and roots begin to listen,

there is a world that moves without urgency.

A world where nothing is wasted,

and everything returns.

This is where Secrets of the Soils began —

not as a concept, but as a feeling.

A pull toward what is buried yet alive.

A language carried through zinc and clay,

through hollow trees and earth-stained hands.

Each piece arrived like a fragment —

a pulse, a memory, a question left in the ground too long.

Some came from dreams.

Some from the forest floor.

Some from the space between breath and forgetting.

You will find no clear path here.

Only openings. Only textures.

Only forms that lean inward —

toward silence, toward memory,

toward something still unfolding.

This is not a destination.

It is a returning.