Life, Lately: Rooting on New Ground

There is a particular kind of quiet that comes with beginning again.

Not the loud, cinematic kind. Not the kind that announces itself.

But the gentle, almost imperceptible hush of learning new rhythms. New streets. New seasons. New ways of belonging.

This year has begun slowly for me. With cold, clear mornings and breath that fogs the air. With wool wrapped around my hands and tea warming my palms. With time—more time than I’ve had in years—to notice where I am, and who I am becoming here.

Because now, I am here. In the UK. Not visiting. Not passing through. Living. Rooting. Building a life.

And people often ask me how.

“How did you do it?” “How can I do it too?” “Was it hard?”

The honest answer?

Yes. It was hard. Oh, so very hard.

Moving countries is not the romantic montage of the movies. It is paperwork and patience. It is forms and fees and months—sometimes years—of waiting. It is expensive. It is exhausting. It is deeply invasive.

You are asked to open your life like a book and hand it over to strangers.

Your relationships. Your messages. Your photographs. Your history. Your love.

Letters explaining how and why you belong together. Screenshots of everyday tenderness. Proof that your life is real and rooted and worthy of being allowed to continue.

It is humbling. And at times, heartbreaking.

Because alongside the bureaucracy, there is the leaving.

Leaving my family. Leaving my girls. Leaving my precious granddaughter, Clementine.

No amount of preparation makes that easy.

Some days, the ache arrives without warning. In the middle of folding laundry. While walking past a playground. When I see a tiny pair of shoes in a shop window.

FaceTime helps. Oh, how it helps.

Seeing their faces. Hearing their voices. Sharing small moments across oceans.

And there is comfort, too, in knowing that flights exist. That hugs are only a journey away. That love is not confined by geography.

Still—distance is distance. And it asks something of you.

Life here, in many ways, doesn’t feel wildly different from life in America. And in other ways, it feels worlds apart.

There is less noise. Less urgency. Less relentless selling.

A gentler pace.

A cup of tea. A slice of cake. A quiet afternoon.

And suddenly, things feel manageable again.

There is a simplicity here that soothes me. A softness to daily life. A sense that it is acceptable—encouraged, even—to slow down.

To walk. To notice. To linger.

Sometimes, I feel strange being an American on this side of the pond, especially given the upheaval and uncertainty unfolding back home. I carry both gratitude and grief in equal measure. Gratitude for safety and stability. Grief for what feels fragile and unsettled.

It is a complicated thing—to love two places at once.

But I have always been drawn to Great Britain.

To its moody skies.Its rolling fields. Its hedgerows and footpaths and ancient trees.

To the way nature is woven into daily life.

And to its artists.

So many brilliant textile and mixed media artists have shaped and inspired me here. Their work—rooted in landscape, memory, and material—has long felt like a quiet conversation I wanted to join.

Now, I finally can.

And in this season of rooting, Wandering Craft has been rooting too.

Over the past couple of years, it has grown and softened and deepened in ways I could never have imagined. What began as a vision held quietly in my heart has become something shared—something held together by love, trust, and collaboration.

Michael has joined me in this work, becoming the beautiful, behind-the-scenes magic maker who helps turn ideas into lived experiences. He shares the load of the logistics, the planning, the invisible details that allow the creative heart of Wandering Craft to beat freely.

Together, we are building thoughtfully curated art experiences across Scotland and England—spaces where creativity, landscape, and community intertwine.

It has been one of the great joys of my life to continue this vision alongside him.

We look forward to welcoming exceptional artists and extraordinary creative women from around the world. To wander together. To learn together. To make together. To sit at long tables and share stories and tea and laughter.

The past couple of years have been filled with such grace.

So many beautiful souls. So many shared meals. So many moments of courage and vulnerability and growth.

Every retreat, every gathering, every conversation has left its imprint on my heart.

In the studio, things are slowly beginning to take shape.

Knitting has once again become a kind of meditation. A way to steady myself in a world that often feels unsteady. Stitch by stitch, breath by breath.

I can feel creativity stirring and opening bigger things. New ideas.

The light is changing.The earth is waking. And so am I.

I feel the familiar pull back to the loom. Back to collage. Back to scattered tables and inky fingers.

Back to vintage papers and forgotten photographs.

I find myself drawn again to stories—old ones, half-told ones, fragile ones—and the act of rebuilding them. Honoring the past while giving it new breath.

I walk every day. Through lanes and fields and quiet neighborhoods. Gathering colors. Textures. Shadows. Fragments.

All of it becoming future work. All of it becoming part of me.

This life—this new life—feels like becoming.

Becoming rooted. Becoming braver. Becoming softer and stronger at once.

Preparing for marriage. Preparing for adventures. Preparing for landscapes not yet known.

Holding grief and gratitude in the same hands.

Learning, slowly, how to belong.

And trusting that this—this tender, complicated, beautiful in-between—is exactly where I am meant to be.

Xx Summer