“The Weight of Light”

There are moments at the bench where time stretches—elastic, deliberate—as if it, too, is caught in the curl of copper wire. This pendant, shaped by hands often stained with oxide and memory, came to be during such a moment. The stone—labradorite, with its elusive, flickering fire—felt like a secret waiting to be spoken. I remember the late afternoon sun slipping through the studio window, catching in the blue-gold flare of the gem—like a lighthouse beam in mist, seen only by those looking long enough.

I wrapped it slowly, each coil of copper a sentence, each twist a question. Not of gods or destiny, but of form and belonging. How can something so grounded—drawn from the belly of the Earth—contain such radiant defiance? And how do we, fragile creatures that we are, carry light without letting it escape us?

This piece is not meant to dazzle. It is meant to accompany—to be worn in silence, in wonder, in those small rooms inside the soul where words cannot reach. It rests against the chest like a thought unfinished, waiting to be known.

No two stones speak the same, and this one murmured of winter skies, old stories, and the brief glint of revelation before sleep. I did not command it—I merely listened, and answered in copper.