Like a Dandelion In my childhood, the yard in front of our house was always scattered with dandelion seeds. Walking across it, I sometimes stepped on them without a thought, and when I found a fuller seed head, I would take a deep breath and blow it into the air. A small game. The seeds rose lightly and drifted apart, and my breath carried them, and with them a quiet joy. Looking back now, I see that within that lightness, that near-fragile state, were feelings I did not yet know: being held, yet always ready to come loose; holding on, while knowing that one day you must let go. The dandelion seed survives by being light, by letting go, by moving on. Even a faint wind can scatter it, and in this it resembles the human heart, which longs to keep what is precious and in the end must release it. This work carries the seed’s fragility, softness, and passing lightness into the shape of a human body at rest. What forms there is a landscape in which the vulnerability of being becomes visible.