Despite being raised by wolves and spending more than 25 years in the newspaper business, I can do a fairly good impression of a civilized human being. My feral side comes out in the art form that has become my passion, freeform bead-weaving. There, I follow the creative trail, it seems, mostly by instinct. I take a hunter-gatherer approach to my pieces, collecting bits of this and that -- seed beads, stones, shells, pearls of all colors, bits of glass and special vintage buttons or artist's beads -- and dragging them back to my lair.

Once I have the materials, I stare at them a while until it almost seems they tell me what they want to be. It's then that I take up needle and thread, and start weaving. The conversation continues as I constantly stop and look at the work completed and let the beads determine what I do next. It is endlessly fascinating and rewarding on levels I don't even yet understand. Color, shape and finish are all equally important to the process.

I draw inspiration from nature, as do most artists: the golds and reds of autumn leaves, the multitude of greens in a forest, a riot of spring flowers in a meadow, the cold sparkle of white snow on gray granite mountains and the mystery of a star-spangled night sky. Images from various eras also come into play: the color palette and reverence for history of the Arts and Crafts movement; the ornate luxury of Elizabethan England; the grandeur of Egyptian jewelry and the primal energy of long-hidden cave paintings all speak to me in a profound way.

I discovered beads, thanks to a fellow food editor, on a trip to Portland, Oregon, in the mid-1990s. I did simple stringing for years, and then made a lengthy side trip into polymer clay, taking classes from Sarah Shriver and Christi Friesen. Both of these artists' sensibilities, way with color and great good humor informs what I do now, in a different medium. I learned needle-and-thread basics from my beloved grandmother, who could sew, knit, crochet, cook, garden and keep a grandkid entertained for hours with her storytelling, much of it about her childhood on Sao Jorge Island in the Azores. She shared my room when I was small, and I still remember falling asleep to her whispered prayers in Portuguese, and the clicking of her rosary beads. I wonder ......