It Starts with a Word

The house we rented in Maine last month was aptly named the Treehouse. Set high above the water and partly resting on a granite ledge, its downhill side was supported by stilts so that its deck, in places 15’ or so from the ground, was abreast of and cocooned by evergreen branches. You couldn’t see the ground and only glimpses of the sky and the Narrows; it was lovely and I felt a bit like a squirrel. Other than our own voices, the calls of birds and wind moving among the pine needles was the sole background soundtrack.

I managed a few quick sketches to try to capture a sense of the trees

Several years ago, I listened to Gretchen Rubin speak extensively about her soon-to-be-released book Life in Five Senses: How Exploring the Senses Got Me Out of My Head and Into the World. Her ideas have stayed with me since, encouraging a more acute awareness of the sensorial aspects of everyday life that we are inclined to overlook. Making a concerted effort to pay attention has added a depth to my day-to-day that I hadn’t previously known was missing.

For example, I’ve come to recognize that the rustle of wind moving through the treetops — a phenomenon that, living on a hill, is often present — is, for me, an indescribably comforting and somehow life-affirming sound. The question I’ve been wrestling with is how do I share that feeling visually?

I neglected to take many photos along the way, but this mid-process detail shot gives a bit of an idea of my approach. I worked this piece much the way I used to do with the dyed and stitched pieces: begin by stitching the letters and surrounding area with white thread on white paper, paint the image over the stitching, and then further define the stitched area with more stitching. As so often happens, ideas about fine-tuning the process cropped up while I worked. With those thoughts in mind, it will be worthwhile to make some small experimental samples before investing in another full piece.

This latest stitched painting is partially inspired by our peaceful vacation spot, but even more so by the natural sound which brings me such pleasure. Is there such a thing as auditory texture? How does one translate a personal experience so that it taps into something universal?

Whisper ©2026 Elizabeth Fram, Gouache and stitch on paper, 7 × 9.5 inches

Perhaps it starts with a word.

Quick Note: I am going to be away for a couple of weeks, so look for my next post later in November.