What happens to the bones of a building when it falls? They don’t just disappear. They wait.

I want you to picture a demolition site. You know the one. It’s loud, chaotic, covered in a thick layer of gray dust that settles into every line of your face. Most people see destruction. They see waste. They see something that needs to be hauled away and buried so we can pretend it never existed. But I’ve been standing there lately, not with a hard hat, but with my hands bare, looking for something else. I’m looking for the copper. Specifically, the wire stripped from the walls of buildings that are no longer standing.

It’s strange how often we associate creation with new materials. We buy fresh rolls of thread, pristine sheets of canvas, blocks of untouched marble. There’s a comfort in that virginity, in starting with nothing so we can make something perfect. But there is a different kind of magic in taking what has already lived, what has already served a purpose, and asking it to serve another. When you strip copper wire from an old wall, you aren’t just recycling. You’re conducting a conversation with the past. You’re holding the history of electricity, of light, of connection, and turning it into something soft, something that holds things rather than carrying them.

Let’s look closer at the material itself. Copper wire isn’t like yarn. Yarn forgives you. If you pull too tight, it stretches. If you leave it loose, it slumps gently into place. Copper is honest. It remembers every bend. If you crease it sharply, that crease stays forever. It has a memory that is both a blessing and a burden. 

When I first started working with this stripped wire, I fought it. I wanted to smooth it out, to make it behave like fabric. I spent hours trying to iron out the kinks, frustrated by its stubbornness. But then I stopped. I let the wire be what it was. I realized that the stiffness, the slight resistance, was actually giving the basket structure. It was giving it strength. The texture of that wire—cool against the skin, heavy in the palm—reminds me that resilience isn’t about being flexible. Sometimes, resilience is about holding your shape even when you’ve been bent out of recognition.

There’s a tactile quality to this work that grounds me in a way digital screens never could. You can feel the oxidation starting before your eyes. You can smell the metallic tang on your fingers long after you’ve washed them. It’s a sensory experience that demands your full attention. You cannot multitask while weaving copper. You have to be here, now, feeling the tension between the strands.

The process begins with stripping. This is where the labor comes in. It’s not glamorous. It’s slow, repetitive, and requires a patience that feels almost meditative. You take a length of cable, perhaps pulled from the insulation of a demolished office or an old home, and you carefully remove the plastic coating. Sometimes the plastic crumbles. Sometimes it clings stubbornly, resisting your fingernails.

This step is crucial because it connects you to the source. Each piece of wire carries a tiny fragment of its previous life. Maybe it carried power to a desk where someone wrote a novel. Maybe it lit up a kitchen where a family gathered for dinner. By stripping it, I am uncovering that hidden potential. I am revealing the core beneath the shell. It’s a metaphor I can’t help but notice. How many of us are wrapped in layers of expectation, of routine, of ‘shoulds,’ hiding the bright, conductive metal underneath?

The act of stripping becomes a form of release. You are peeling away the non-essential to get to what truly matters. And once the wire is free, it gleams. Even if it’s dirty, even if it’s tarnished, there is a warmth to it that feels alive. It’s ready to be reshaped. It’s ready to become part of something new.

Once the wire is prepped, the weaving begins. Unlike traditional basketry with reeds or willow, which rely on natural flexibility, copper wire relies on tension and interlocking. You create a base, usually a spiral, and then build upward. Each turn must be precise. A millimeter off, and the whole structure can warp. 

I find myself thinking about the invisible threads that hold our lives together. We talk about community, about support systems, about love, as if they are abstract concepts. But they are structural. They are the wires we weave around ourselves to keep from collapsing under pressure. When I weave these baskets, I am practicing that interconnection. I am learning how to hold space for something fragile without crushing it. The wire wants to spring back, to return to its straight line. My job is to guide it, to persuade it, to show it a new direction.

It’s okay to be unfinished in the middle of this. The basket doesn’t have a defined shape until the very end. For most of the process, it’s just a jumble of loops and curves. It looks like a mistake. It looks like a mess. But I trust the process. I trust that if I keep adding turns, if I keep maintaining the tension, the form will reveal itself. It always does.

One of the most beautiful aspects of copper is its relationship with time. Fresh copper is bright, almost orange-gold. But as it interacts with air and moisture, it changes. It develops a patina. It turns green, then brown, then deep blue. This isn’t damage. It’s character. It’s the story of the object’s life written on its surface.

When you use a copper basket, you are participating in that change. Your oils, the humidity in your home, the objects you place inside—it all contributes to the evolution of the piece. No two baskets age the same way. One might stay bright for years; another might develop a rich verdigris in weeks. This impermanence is comforting. It reminds us that we are also changing. We are not static. We are reacting to our environment, accumulating experiences, developing our own unique textures.

I often leave my baskets unsealed, allowing them to breathe. I don’t want to preserve them in a moment of perfection. I want them to live. I want them to age gracefully, to show wear, to tell the story of their making and their usage. In a world obsessed with newness, choosing to honor the aging process is a radical act. It’s a declaration that beauty is not fixed. It is fluid. It is alive.

So why do I do this? Why go to a demolition site, dig through rubble, strip wire, and twist it into shapes? Because it teaches me how to be present. It teaches me that there is value in what others discard. It teaches me that strength can be soft, and that structure can be gentle.

In my own life, I’ve had to learn to appreciate the ‘ugly middle’ of projects. The messy drafts, the failed sketches, the periods of doubt. These are not signs of failure. They are the raw materials. Just like the copper wire, they have potential. They just need to be handled with care, with intention, with respect for their nature.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the noise of the world, I invite you to try something small. Find a discarded object. Hold it. Look at it closely. Ask yourself what it was, what it is, and what it could be. You don’t need a pottery wheel or a studio. You just need to pay attention. To notice the texture of your days. To find the glint of possibility in the dust. Let’s look closer. What’s the texture of that? It might just be enough to ground you.

Thank you for spending this time with me. I hope you found a little stillness in the clutter today. Go easy on yourselves. Be gentle with your hands. And remember, it’s okay to be unfinished. I’ll see you next time.