Author: northdelta

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Visible Mending

A tear in your favorite sweater. A hole in the knee of well-worn jeans. We try to hide the damage—stitching carefully, matching threads, or even throwing it away to pretend it never happened. But visible mending offers another way.

Visible mending is the practice of repairing clothes in a way that celebrates the flaw. Using bright threads, bold patches, or deliberate stitching, it transforms damage into design—turning a rip into a story.

And maybe that’s what we need more of.

A tear in your heart or the heart of a loved one. Mistakes are buried, fractures intensified, short-comings gaslit. But what if, instead, we honored the rupture? What if, in our personal relationships, we stitched across our disagreements? Not to erase them, but to acknowledge them—beautifully and honestly?

A hole in the foundation of our shared home. Our freedoms damaged and torn. In order to repair, we’ll need to take the thread that’s barely hanging on and patch it with artistic flair. We’re going to need some intentional and vibrant mending that requires all to reach across the isle with a visible and sturdy bridge.

Visible mending doesn’t pretend we were never broken.
It shows that we are still here.
That we cared enough to repair.
That healing, like thread or patch, can be both strong and beautiful.

If we visibly mend, we will inspire and enlighten each other repair by repair.

Visible Mending

A tear traced in gold,
Art no longer amiss—
a seam that says:
I’ve come through this.

Not patched to vanish,
but to shine—
a thread declaring
flaws are fine.

So too with hearts,
and trust, and land:
repair is art
when done by hand.

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S.L.O.T.H. Fashion

Slow to buy new, quick to repair 

Slow to chase trends, quick to be real 

Slow to mass produce, quick to craft 

Slow to pollute, quick to sustain 

Slow to conform, quick to diversify 

Slow to discard, quick to recycle 

Never exploiting, Always respecting 

Be real. Be kind. Take it slow. 🐢 

What Is “Slow Fashion”?
Slow fashion is conscious and consistent choices that center on quality, sustainability, and ethical choices. It’s about making thoughtful decisions that care for our home, and the people making our clothing.

If you’ve been slow to start- it’s ok. You’ll still get there if you choose a next step to take:

1. Skip it.
Before buying something new, pause and ask: Do I already have something that works? Rewearing and reimagining what you own is the most sustainable choice.

2. Mend it.
Have what you need but it’s a little worn or stained? Mend it—extra credit for visible mending that shows personality!

3. Borrow it.
Need something short-term, like ski gloves for a weekend trip? Ask a friend or neighbor if you can borrow instead of buy.

4. Request it.
If you’re looking for something longer-term, check your local Buy Nothing group or ask your community if someone can spare a hand-me-down. 

5. Thrift it.
Still no luck? Head to a local second-hand or consignment shop. It’s better for the environment—and often your wallet too.

6. Small-shop it.
If you do need to buy new, support small, local, or ethical brands. Look for makers and shops that align with your values.

7. Study it.
When all else fails and a new purchase is necessary, take a moment to do your homework.

 * Is the brand ethical?

 * Are the materials organic or responsibly sourced?

 * Is it well-made and mendable?

 * Is it 100% wool or cotton—natural, breathable, and durable?

If you’ve reached the end of the list and still feel the urge to buy something fast fashion – slow down and ask yourself: Do you really need it? What’s driving the desire? Advertising? A trend? Boredom?


Fashion isn’t about chasing trends. It’s about expressing who you are. 

True fashion is S.L.O.T.H. – Sustainable, Long-lasting, Organic, Thoughtful, and Honest to you. 

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Spilled Ink

A lot of ink has been spilled throughout history, but sometimes we neglect to read that spilled ink during some of the most pivotal moments. If history only spilled 9 words of ink for you – what would they say? What would you WANT them to say? Now is the time to write that history.

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Small Connections, Big Impact

If you’ve ever felt disconnected in this fast-paced world, I have two small but powerful suggestions:

  1. Become a regular at a local business—one where the hours might shift because the owner has to take their kid to a doctor’s appointment.
  2. Spend time tech-free in nature, simply wandering.

I’m writing this in the days between Earth Day and Independent Bookstore Day, and I can’t help but reflect on how both small brick-and-mortar shops and the natural world offer something we desperately need: real connection.

On a recent visit to a tiny bookstore, I chatted with the owner, who shared something insightful. People-watching in a bookstore, they said, is an art. You try to guess what someone might pick up. But more often than not, you’re wrong. One of their best customers—a burly guy with keys jingling from his belt—wasn’t expected to buy anything. Now, he stops by regularly, often just to sit and read. Independent bookstores prove that old saying true: Don’t judge a book by its cover.

Places like this—and moments like these—let us connect with the quiet threads that hold us together. They’re reminders that beneath all our differences, we are still human.

Nature teaches us the same lesson. Sure, technology can show us stunning sights and sounds from across the globe. But without engaging the other senses—touch, smell, taste, and that hard-to-describe internal awareness—we miss the depth. Real change, real empathy, only grows when we plant ourselves in the dirt of real experience.

But you don’t have the extra time to support a local business or to go help out at your local park? Would you say the same about spending 15 extra minutes with a friend? Because that’s exactly what you’re doing when you visit your neighborhood bookstore or help clean up your local park. You’re building a relationship—with people and place. You’re visiting a future friend.

Simple actions—smelling the pages of a bookstore, feeling the soil in a park—anchor us. They remind us what really matters. The core of every meaningful experience lies in small, honest moments with human and natural nature. Maybe the world’s problems really do begin to shift when we return to the dirt we came from and the small connections that make us who we are.

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Time To Get Up

Ring. Ring. 

It’s time to get up.
It’s time to get going.
You long for real change,
but the sand keeps on flowing.

You can theorize progress,
quantify pain,
but the hourglass whispers—
inaction’s a chain.

You data-analyze
And armchair-philosophize,
but there aren’t recline pulls
For the beams in your eyes.

Maybe there was a time to rest
with ruminations and lore
But now the world needs
IRL renderings of human rapport.

A generation needs us
To put feet on the ground,
for valor to echo,
not just circle around and around
And around… 

Let’s let go of lip-service,
put our hands in the dirt
and get out to plant the seeds
fear and entitlement can’t hurt.

Leave the chair empty
bring passion in full
We have unique gifts
to spot wolf from the wool

Vacate our safe spaces,
but arrive soul-intact—
with discernment to see
what love never lacks. 

That child desperately needs us
to stand for them out of our chair
Put our thoughts into action
While there is still time to care.

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What’s the risk?

“If it’s icy outside, better stay in,” they say,

“A slip or a trip, and there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Want to learn about leaves? Could be fun, so sweet!

But a kid could get lost, just print the worksheet.”

“Building stuff with real tools?

Sounds cool, but nope,

Could turn into weapons.

We’ve lost all hope.

Yeah, we can count the injuries,

the broken bones,

But what about the risks that go unknown?

The ones on graphs that can’t be shown.

What’s the cost to a kid who never plays,

Never gets to figure things out in the fray?

Schools stick to the script, tests and all,

Too much freedom? They’re afraid they’ll fall.

But aren’t we missing something, a vital part?

The growth of imagination, invention, the heart?

Are we so scared of risks that we blindfold our youth,

From a world where they need to find their own truth?

If a child never gets to climb a tall tree

they’ll miss out on the view of what they could be

Yes, calculate your risks, but keep in mind,

It’s not just the numbers that you need to find.

In trying so hard to control every twist, We forget,

avoiding risk is the bigger risk that exists.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the risks we take in life. And even more so, the risks we DON’T take. 

Schools are a good example of this. American schools have become increasingly afraid of quantitative risks. 

Too icy outside? Someone might slip, so keep the kids in. Want to learn about leaves in the fall by walking in the woods? A kid might run off, so print a worksheet instead. Want to teach engineering by building something with real tools? A kid might use those tools as a weapon, so watch a YouTube video instead. 

Yes, there are real, quantifiable risks. You can count broken bones. But do we give equal thought to the hidden qualitative risks? What is the risk to the mental health of a child who never gets time to process and practice on the playground because injury and litigation are too scary for administration? You can’t see that risk until it’s too late. 

Schools are afraid to risk letting go of strict curriculum and standardized testing, because too much choice becomes uncontrollable and unmeasurable. But what is the unseen risk of keeping children from exercising the skill of imagination, invention, and problem solving?

Have we become so risk-adverse that we are raising an enmeshed, over-stimulated, under-regulated generation? 

Yes, take calculated risks, but first make sure to have all pieces of the equation.

Controlling for risk is a risk itself.

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It Makes Sound

If the tree falls when no one’s around
Does anyone care? Will it make sound?
Yes! Our own creations, like that silent tree,
Echo inside ourselves, their own melody.

The purpose of art, in its purest form,

Is to make us more human, to transform.

In the act of falling, in the act of creation,
Lies the essence of our human station.

“If a tree falls in the forest with no one around, does it make a sound?”

Yes. 

This question always seemed silly to me. Of course it does, the tree was there to hear itself. The tree experienced the fall. As did anything close to it. And it continued to make sound as animals made their home in it, more sound when its fading leaves blew in the wind, and even more sound when that child eventually came to the forest to learn to balance on its history. 

I’ve thought about this sentiment a few times as we continue to see a rise in Artificial Intelligence. It wasn’t that long ago that I thought the humanities – unique pieces of art, music and literature – would hold off against artificial replication. Clearly AI has moved well past that. So why create art, why write stories, why craft at all if AI can do it faster, better, and for a wider audience? If it can make a louder sound?

Because even if art is created with no one around, it makes sound to the creator. My humanities make sound to me. No one else and nothing else can ever replace my creative process. For me, the process of creation is part of becoming. The process of creation changes me. It helps me take the time to process my world. It reflects back at me to help me see my priorities from another angle, even if no one else is standing where the light bends for that same perspective. The process of creating helps me become more human – which is to say – more vulnerable, raw, and real. That is the purpose of humanities – to help us become more of what we already are – human. And AI can’t replicate that.

Is all of this to say I’m anti-AI? Not as much as some artists. AI can be used for good *if* it is used like a hammer or a paintbrush – something to pick up, utilize, and put back down again. This is something I do on occasion. Many times I’ll have an idea in my head that I’m having a hard time sketching out properly. So, I turn to the tool of AI and ask it to make the building blocks for me, nudging it different directions until I have enough of a reference picture to get back to hands-on. AI has potential to be used for some incredibly noble advancements. However, if the humans behind AI and the humans utilizing AI don’t first touch the earth, watch an eagle’s natural co-parenting instincts during a blizzard, and ultimately learn to balance on that fallen log – they will never know what and why to build with AI.

As humans, we spend too much time focusing on what our impact will be. How many likes, how many followers, what awards, how much noise? We overlook the value that it is to experience existence. An individual experiencing existence and experiencing creation is worthy as is. The value is not in the results. We need to allow ourselves the space to create for the sake of creating.

Is all of this selfishness? No. The tree could not exist in and of itself. The air it gave, the nutrition it produced, the beauty it stood for is the emergence of the soil and seeds of the past and the biodiversity of its presence. Every creator is the emergence of their past and the diversity of their communities. Creating is to acknowledge our universal connection.

As we move into a world heavily influenced by collectively trained AI, I also consider the universal connection we have with the rising generation. Will we help the next generation see that their sound matters no matter who else sees or hears it? Will we help our children create more than they consume? Will we personally value their individual experience? Will we allow them to make mistakes in their creative processes (including grammatical errors), or will we overly sanitize their existence with algorithmically assigned standards? Will we help them touch the dirt, watch the birds, and balance on that log, so that they can, in turn, know what and why to create with the tools they have been given? Or will we create a world where they believe their noise is only measured in decibels?

I have, on occasion, tried to raise the decibels of my voice about what I believe matters in all of this. And does that voice matter? Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it if I measure it by splash or influence. I know it matters to my puddle-jumping Ander-Joy family, but even if it didn’t make a splash there, I can remember the trees. It matters that I am using my voice, because the process of using my voice is a reflective sound to myself.

If this post falls into a world unseen by even one other person, will it matter? Will it make a sound?

Yes. 

To me. 

The process of using my voice, the process of creating, the growth of me now and after I’m gone still matter – my personal experience – my progression towards authenticity. Those matter. 

They are what make me human. Writing this has been a form of self reflection. What do I value moving into this new rapidly changing future? How will I grow from now until the next time I create? What will I do to ensure that the next generation can hear their own sound? All of this musing makes sound to me.

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A Few Good Ones

“You don’t need everyone to love you… Just a few good people.” (The Greatest Showman).

I come back to this a lot, including with my work.

I started North Delta Art as a hobby. It still is, but it is also slowly growing. 

With every new creative project, I remind myself who it is for.

So who is it for? For my few good ones.

  • For the child who shared words inspired by the imagination of the Peysu Pals to express how a wind chime could be the interaction between Elska (love) and Tuuli (wind) telling us that we are loved.
  • For the child with mis-matched shoes teaching me more on our nature saunters than I could ever teach her.
  • For the grown up “magic smuggler” who provides space and support for me to create.

Sometimes I’m asked why I don’t do specific things to make my art more broadly interesting or why I rarely jump on trending bandwagons or study algorithms. I admit it is a privileged position to be in, but this is why. I don’t need the world to love me, or my work. I already have my few good ones (including all of you who took the time to read this). 

I do welcome the potential of meeting a few more good ones. I’ve loved the local approach I now prioritize which has led to great conversations with amazing bookstore owners and artists. I hope to make an impact in a few good ways as I begin to add classes to my rotation. I hope my art is connective and meaningful to a few good people who so kindly have purchased and supported my work. Ultimately, though, I hope that I never forget why this started in the first place.

If this grows organically, I’m excited to see where it goes. But if I never make another sale, I will still have the few REALLY good memories of “happy sheep” dances in my living room and family craft time in the Sunroom Studio. And those few good moments are what make a life.

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JOMO

The Joy of Missing out on fast fashion to relax in go-tos longer

The Joy of Missing out on impulse buys to keep your budget stronger

The Joy of Missing out on new trends to mend your own with authenticity

The Joy of Missing out on popularity to relish in simplicity

The Joy of Missing Out on laundry to wear fresh merino another day

The Joy of Missing out on garbage to hear what nature has to say.

– –

FOMO, or the “fear of missing out”, has ended up everywhere from slang to full-blown studies. It’s the fear of regret, the fear of being left out, the fear of not experiencing enough. In a world where it’s excessively easy to scroll through everyone’s instant-replay highlight, FOMO lurks on the surfaces of just about everything. 

While I’m two thumbs up for experiencing life in big ways like cultural travel deep-dives, I’m also two thumbs up for remembering JOMO – the Joy of Missing Out.

Every moment I don’t spend scrolling social media is a moment I can scroll & stroll my backyard for songbirds while enjoying gökotta. Every choice not to travel across the world and make new friends, can be a choice to travel to the present for deeper conversations with old, close friends. Or to get to know myself better in that rare silence. There is much to be found where absence resides. Every experience I don’t have, is an experience I AM having now. 

So if you feel like you’re missing out on something right now, take a moment to breath, then look around to see the little joys you may have right in front of you. Because you are missing out on something else, you are where you are. And joy can be found wherever that is. 

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How Will I Nourish Today?

Finding the lagom (a Swedish word for “just right”) approach to health & wellness can be difficult. A hyper-focus on health leads to toxic and sometimes dangerous diet, exercise, and appearance cultures. On the other hand, an ignorance of healthy practices clearly also has negative impacts. 

For me, that just-right, lagom solution has been to start a habit of asking two simple questions each morning:

  1. How will I nourish myself today?
  2. How will I nourish future generations?

The answer to the first is often as simple as “I will drink an extra glass of water” or “I will write in my journal” or “I will walk instead of drive.” 

The answer to the second can be equally simple “I will remind them that they are loved” or “We’ll practice swimming” or “I’ll advocate for sensory/outdoor education experiences” or “I will plant native plants.”

Little by little these once-a-day intentional choices have helped me get to know myself better while also bringing a fuller feeling of wellness in my life. 

How will you nourish today?

Will you drink an extra cup of water?

Will you plant a seed of advocacy for the future?

Will you listen to those “this song gets it” words?

Will you take the time to gökotta with the birds?

Will you paint simply to paint?

Will you renew something torn, yet quaint?

How will you nourish today?