I am driving north today,
away from the fire and ash.
Thanksgiving waits with its quiet comforts,
a table full of strangers who call themselves family,
an excuse to turn my back on the burning.
My sister’s gasoline is endless.
Every year, another match—
lit without hesitation,
tossed behind her as she walks away.
She expects me to be the wildfire:
to bloom, to grow stronger,
to rise from the charred remains.
But I’ve drawn a line in the sand.
I cannot carry her flames anymore.
Her fire doesn’t cleanse;
it doesn’t renew.
It’s a spiral, a consuming force,
the bottom of a bottle she can’t reach.
She pretends the burn is separate—
drunken nights and sober mornings
two parallel lives,
but I see only one
long, unbroken line
of hurt.
I think of her son,
how the weight of her choices
crumbles the ground beneath him.
I think of our childhood,
the way I carried my pain
into poems and reflections,
how I promised myself
to never forget the weight
of what others made me feel.
But she carried hers differently:
punching walls, throwing objects,
beating the world with her fists
when words wouldn’t come.
Even in her darkest hours,
she hid the depth of her sorrow,
a fortress too high to scale.
She never burned herself down,
never let the fire consume
what needed to die
to start again.
She just kept holding the matches.
And here I am,
feeling the pull to reach out,
to ask her how she is,
to offer what help I can.
But I don’t.
Not this time.
Because love isn’t letting her spill fire onto me.
Love isn’t standing in her blaze,
waiting for her to see the light.
Love is the line in the sand.
The waiting.
She walks so far from the light now,
it will take a fall,
a great and terrible fall,
for her to find it.
And when she does,
it won’t be because I carried her there.
It will be because she surprised herself,
dug deep enough to reach the other side.
I don’t know if she will.
But I’ll be here,
watching the horizon,
the line where the fire ends,
and waiting.
2024
(A hybrid creation, inspired by Mary Oliver's quiet wisdom.)
I ran from the house where love was small,
where the walls pressed in,
and the ceiling whispered caution.
I vowed to throw myself wide—
into the arms of the world,
into lives too bold,
too brash, too untried.
I believed in the swelling heart of discovery,
in the deep root of goodness in all,
in the hunger to grow,
to learn,
to reach beyond the borders of what we know.
I thought it was human,
this need to stretch beyond ourselves.
But again and again, I found the opposite:
People standing still—
content, resigned, small.
I threw myself at them anyway.
Each time, fascinated,
each time, disappointed.
How could they love the comfort of their corners
when I was burning to leap past the horizon?
And now—here you are,
your quiet certainty like an anchor
against my kite.
And I, with my restless threads,
grasping at the wild wind,
resent the tether,
even as it steadies me.
You say you feel trapped,
a kite now held in my hand.
What irony is this?
We both bristle at the pull,
at the weight of one another’s longing—
to hold on,
to let go,
to be both free and tied.
But oh, love, can’t you see?
It is not the tether that binds us.
It is our fear of the stillness,
of becoming the thing we fled.
So let us be the kite and the string.
Let us trust the dance—
your steady pull,
my wild flight.
Let the wind take us where it may.
And if we land,
let it be together,
on a hill no one has claimed.
2024
(A hybrid creation, inspired by Mary Oliver's quiet wisdom.)
I feel the weight—
a stone pressed on my chest,
the tightness of words waiting,
their edges caught in my throat.
Tonight, I go home,
to friends, their warmth,
though something inside me trembles.
Friendship, like a foreign shore,
I wade toward it nervously,
a hesitant swimmer, unsure
if I belong in its embrace.
Childhood whispers follow:
A room half-cleaned,
the deliberate sabotage of a girl
who didn’t want the party,
but longed for its promise.
Their coats,
my hands held them too long.
Their games,
my heart never joined.
My mother,
with her silence, her knowing,
let me stay behind,
in the sanctuary of my room,
where paints and dreams
were kinder friends.
And now, I wonder,
if she was not the villain
but the quiet shepherd
guiding me to solitude’s grace—
a place where I could
build my own belonging.
2024
(A hybrid creation, inspired by Mary Oliver's quiet wisdom.)
The exhibition 35 Objects is a group show organized by the Fall 2022 students of “Critical Methodologies and Discursive Engagement,” an advanced seminar at the J Irwin Miller Architecture Program. The exhibition is a reformatting of the semester’s writing exercises into a visual, public exhibition format. The exhibition takes the form of broadsheets, a hybrid publication and advertisement often posted in public spaces. Students worked together make all curatorial decisions from concept to exhibition design. They edited and published these texts, as well as carefully considered their display in the gallery setting. Each student’s “project,”—or their long-term intellectual body of work—was constructed using five discreet objects, each of which became the subject of a text exercise. By contextualizing these objects and placing them in dialogue with one another, a personal narrative begins to emerge.
(Instructor/Writing Credit: Matt Shaw)
Architectural preservation is the most important intervention for a more sustainable future. Modern infrastructure is supplemented by technologies that sustain comfort, while pre-industrial buildings existed without this technology. Older buildings also have incredible charm and character. The craftsmanship in wood trim details, the care in handmade bricks, stained glass windows, and doors are touch points as you experience architecture. An understanding of the old can be woven into new building methodologies. A continuous storyline is important for local historic context. Progress is repairing what is broken and rebuilding consciously. We must learn from the past when moving forward.
Mary Oliver is an American poet known for her work inspired by nature, rather than the human world. Connecting with nature helps us to understand our human experience. Wild Geese is a poem about equity and belonging. In the ‘family of things’ you belong, there is a place for you. Placemaking doesn’t always involve buildings, public space, or architecture; but architecture always involves making a place. What is addressed and what is left alone are important decisions within a project. What is left untouched is an important aspect of maintaining community culture. Projects will be built and forgotten, the places in which we belong will not.
In 2018, a climbing gym in Bloomington moved into their new location, the historic McDoel Baptist church. A local design build firm, Loren Wood Builders completed this adaptive reuse of the gym. The renovation exposed the original hardwood floors and trusses, while the original windows were rebuilt, and complementary woodwork was added. The original 1960s chapel now holds a bouldering room and yoga studio. A new building was also added on the property to house a tall ropes climbing area. Builder Loren Wood states that his favorite place on the project is the courtyard. From this spot you can see the original 1920’s building, the 1950’s office, 1960’s chapel, and the new 2018 steel addition. The efforts of this rehabilitation are impressive, but it has also enabled a climbing community to grow and inspired others in Bloomington into a new pastime.
The lab focuses on the impact of older buildings with the health of the community. It looks at social, economic and environmental outcomes providing an incredible wealth of data and analysis. The data from this research is used to raise funds and steer policy changes to support preservation efforts. This money is invested into neighborhoods on the local level. The Research & Policy Lab not only works to save historic places, it also strives to tell the story of our history. It is providing the context for communities to progress within the roots of their integral culture. The efforts have shown that mixing old and new buildings supports cultural and social activity. Their research has also found that the younger generation loves old buildings. Interesting community spaces help local economies thrive and evolve at a feasible and sustainable pace.
The Surrey Inn in Columbus was a Best Western Motel built in 1968 by developer Fred Suhre. Located at 3rd and Franklin, it became the home to the Bartholomew County Government Offices only a few years later. Prior to the Surrey Inn, the Belvedere Hotel stood in this location until destroyed by fire in 1967. On the night of the fire, there were only six guests staying at the Belvedere, five of them were permanent residents.
The Belvedere Hotel was owned by John Crump, a name any Columbus local knows because of the Crump Theater. Mr. Crump bought the building then known as the Bissell Hotel, remodeled it within a year, and opened the Belvedere in December 1891. The hotel was posh, it had a bar, billiards, and lavatories - which were not common in homes, let alone hotels. During construction Crump also had a tunnel dug between the theater and the hotel so that actors could be protected from weather. This tunnel still exists today.
In the same year the Surrey Inn was built, Columbus Cinema opened. The modern two-plex cinema created competition for the older stage theaters. This competition was amplified by increased car use and public interest in shopping centers. These were changing times for all midwestern towns and for America as a whole. The country reached the peak of car culture and American design. People were looking for more modern entertainment. The need for local theater houses and downtown hotels for out of town guests was no longer en vogue.
The St. Denis on Washington, Columbus’s oldest hotel, stopped taking guests in the mid-60’s. In its day noteworthy celebrities would be overnight guests. In 1936 Amelia Eahart stayed when she came to Columbus for a speech. By the 60’s most of the guests to the hotel were permanent residents. The need for downtown luxury hotels was no longer, the Surrey closed shortly after opening, a few years after St. Denis.
In the sixties, music festivals and concerts were popular. Video games and quality color television was available in the home. Turmoil and tragedy were rampant during this period, including JFK and MLK’s assassinations and the Vietnam war, for example. The incredible change and uncertainty at this time most definitely had an impact on Columbus’ downtown area. The era of theater and glam was over, this was now a time of revolution. The Surrey Inn was an idea misplaced in time.
Over 20 percent of the land in Indiana is covered in forests—95% of which are filled with hardwood species. Indiana is ranked third in the country for hardwood lumber production. Hardwoods are more commonly used for making furniture and flooring, while softwoods are used for making construction lumber and plywood.
In the 1970s my grandfather moved his family from Sullivan, IN to Hope, IN to take over a sawmill that sits on the outskirts of town. He spoke to his three sons about the future of the sawmill when they were very young. Around the age of 8, my dad was on board to help achieve their goals together as a family business. At the age of 14, he joined his two older brothers’ working at the sawmill. This was the beginning of a strong family bond to persevere together.
In the beginning, the mill had a successful business supplying hardwood to the high-grade furniture industry in North Carolina. Oak hardwood was most desirable, and out of all hardwood trees in Indiana, oak is the most prevalent. During the 1981 recession, the furniture industry experienced a downturn.The sawmill pivoted and supplied to a barrel stave manufacturer in Louisville.
Over the years the economy changed, trends shifted, and mass-produced products were popular. This made running a business in the timber industry difficult, to stay relevant, the business had to shift. Keeping business diverse, focusing on regional needs, and having an open mind to new opportunities, Hope Hardwoods continued.
In the 90s my uncle wanted to build a home and decided to go to the Indy home show. That day he met an architect running the timber frame company, Timbersmith. Timber frame construction takes advantage of mass-standing timber that is local to the area in which the home is being built. Timbersmith built homes all over the country. In the midwest, they used red oak from southern Indiana, in the northwest, Oregon douglas fir, and salvaged timbers were used when available
Because of the nature of timber products, logs are cut into even lengths of 8 to 16 feet. Timber frame construction requires much longer logs. Many beams and posts are specified at 20 to 35 feet in length. In order to get the desired lengths, trees must be used in their entirety and not trimmed before being placed on the truck. In the 70s, Hope Hardwoods made some improvements to their business that allowed them to control the timber and how it was sawn. This created an opportunity to be a supplier for this builder. Through the 90s many timber frame homes were built using Hoosier Red Oak because of this connection.
At this time Hope Hardwoods timber was also being supplied to an architectural millwork company. Millwork requires an additional step which removes moisture from green lumber so it’s workable. Even though they were supplying green lumber to this supplier, my father decided to build a dry kiln and make small batches of custom millwork for his own interests.
A record-breaking flood hit Columbus in 2008 and hundreds of homes were damaged. There were not enough contractors to do the work. America was experiencing another economic downturn that greatly affected the automotive industry. The foresight to become proficient in dry-kiln millwork allowed my father to help many homeowners in the area. This created a financial buffer when the timber industry changed once again.
Throughout the years, Hope Hardwoods managed to navigate difficult market changes, which meant working with nature, not against it. To get the best yields and a quality product, sustainable harvesting is used to guarantee the longevity in this type of timber business. Forests are harvested every 10 - 30 years, and oak trees hit their harvestable value at 50 - 80 years.
Today most industries do not operate in this manner. Corporations work on a quarterly basis, whereas the timber industry works long-term. Business models like this are going away, but there is something to consider when trying to make businesses operate sustainably and provide a local product. In the summer of 2022, the last saw ran at Hope Hardwoods, but the legacy of adaptation and strong family values perseveres.