The Book Project:
Carved by Loss

M

My academic research began with the lost woodcarvings of Eastern Europe—ornate Torah arks erased by war, remembered only in fragments. I’m now developing this work into a book, Carved by Loss, which bridges scholarship and lived experience. Blending historical research with personal narrative, the writing brings theory into conversation with the rhythm and ritual of craft. At its heart are themes of grief, memory, materiality, craftsmanship, and healing—an exploration of how carving can become both an act of preservation and a form of mourning.

Excerpt from Carved by Loss

During lockdown, I started a writing project about my father’s side of the family, stirred by my fascination with family trees in Gabriel Garcia-Marquez's epics.

My paternal grandfather was a professor in zoology. In 1950, the family moved to Hong Kong, where my grandfather was appointed head of department at the university. I only met him once or twice; I can’t really remember where or when. I inherited a mottled box containing his microscope slides of rat brains and intestines, prosciutto-thin slices turned brown with age. I’d play with the slides as a child, careful not to cut my fingers on the tiny glass windows, entranced by the grotesqueness of it all.

Dad’s childhood years in Hong Kong were the best of his life. Decades later, he would explode our imaginations with stories of baby black bears in bathtubs and, my personal favourite, his proud ownership of a remarkably long tapeworm (which we still believe to be pickled in the Hong Kong zoology department). When I moved to a new school, I shared the story of Dad’s tapeworm during the ‘getting to know you’ session. I quickly regretted this.

Like the passing down of folk songs, I inherited my father’s love for the natural world, which he had inherited from his father. Dad taught me the names of wildflowers as we went on walks near the cottage where I was born. As I grew older, these gentle lessons progressed to exams: I do the same thing with my husband now.

My father didn’t often speak to me about his values or tell me about himself. I wish he had

said more— he had such an extraordinary intelligence, a curious mind, and had experienced

so many adventures in his life. But it was more his style to show rather than speak. He invited his children into his world— a very distinctive world— and in that way he taught us about the things that mattered to him.

Dad had a deeply spiritual connection to nature, which he felt in the small unique details of plants and animals, and in the rhythms of light and darkness throughout the year. I think this is where Dad found connection to something bigger than himself, and a sense of greater peace. Whether by nature or nurture, I find myself knowing God in the same way. I believe this is what drew me to the Ark of Zelva.