The Story of Stations

Old Hickory Village and the Forest

Old Hickory Trail lies on the outskirts of Old Hickory Village, a neighborhood in Nashville, Tennessee that is a hybrid space, teetering between industrial remnants and nature’s resilience. Built by the DuPont Corporation during World War I to house workers for the world’s largest smokeless gunpowder factory, the village echoes the promises of early twentieth-century industrial expansion. Marked by the Army Corps of Engineers’ Old Hickory Dam and Lake complex with its nearby power lines humming constantly with energy, the forest had become a sanctuary for those on the margins—migrants escaping overcrowded housing, people seeking anonymity in an out of the way place for illicit activities, and others simply needing a reprieve from the city’s growing demands. Yet deeper within, past the debris and sounds of modernity, the space offered a kind of stillness. It became a refuge, a place where one could blur their eyes and believe for a moment they were in nature, untouched.

Illness and the Search for Healing

In the spring of 2020, as the world turned inward in response to its own global forms of pandemic, I became gravely ill. By October of 2022, after yet another hospitalization and mounting uncertainty, I felt that I was nearing the end. Despite medications, treatments, and doctors’ efforts, nothing worked. The weight of it—the physical pain, the uncertainty, the sense of collapse—pressed down on me, and I knew I needed something that no medical intervention could offer. I began going to the forest every day. It started in November 2022, as a desperate act of survival. This space, forgotten by most, became a place where I could let go, where I could immerse myself in the practice of meditation, emptying my mind and body of everything but the moment. It was unintentional, almost like I was following an instinct to stay alive.

Through this practice, I slowly began to stabilize. The process was not immediate, but each day I went back, testing what worked against this baseline one treatment and medication at a time, observing my body, letting go of the need for control. The forest became the one place where I could breathe again, where I felt held, not just by the earth but by the quiet between the trees. A place where I found something wild enough to give me peace. I practiced this meditation daily, sometimes multiple times a day, until December 8th, 2023—the day a tornado ripped through my sanctuary, obliterating it completely.

The Tornado

The F2 tornado tore the forest apart in a matter of seconds. Trees that had stood for centuries were uprooted, debris scattered across the trail, and immediately across the river, a family was killed in their home. The forest, which had saved me, was destroyed. The place that had become my lifeline—my Walden—was gone, and with it came a profound sense of loss. I grieved not only for the physical destruction of the space but for the fragility of everything I had come to rely on. It felt as if the external world was reflecting the internal collapse I had feared for so long.

Still, I continued to return to the site, though it was no longer the same. Each time, I felt the loss anew. The destruction seemed to echo my own sense of being uprooted, of having something essential torn away. I could not make sense of it. I would sit and weep, unsure of what to do next. But amid the grief, something shifted. I realized the forest had not just been taken—it had revealed something different, something I had yet to understand.

From Grief to Creation: Collaborating with a Dying Forest

In the weeks that followed, I kept going back, compelled by something I could not yet name. What started as grief began to shift into an act of creation, not by choice, but by necessity. I began to feel an urgency, a compulsion to capture what had been lost, not to resurrect it, but to bear witness to the destruction and to what had once existed. Each day, I would go back, writing on whatever surfaces I could find—scraps of wood, pieces of bark—whatever the tornado had left in its wake.

It was an almost automatic process. I was not thinking about meaning or intent at the time. It was as if I were a vessel for something greater, something the forest needed me to communicate. As I wrote, I began to photograph the pieces—capturing the moment from different angles, showing the distance between what was once present and what remained. This is how the project started to take shape, but even then, I did not yet know what it was.

The forest demanded my presence, not for healing, but to serve as a witness to its transformation. I had to release the need for resolution and simply be with the destruction, allowing the experience to shape me as much as I shaped the work. The exhibit, Stations, reflects this process—a series of images, writings, and sounds that document the layers of removal between the original moment and the final piece of art.

The 13th Station: A Concept as an Exhibition

The process reminded me of Keats’ idea of negative capability—the ability to remain in uncertainty without the need for answers. It is some of what the forest taught me. It was not about solving anything or finding resolution. It was about remaining within the discomfort, allowing the questions to exist without rushing to conclusions. In many ways, the project is an exercise in this—the work does not offer a clear narrative, just as I could not make sense of what had happened to me or the forest in those moments. It simply presents what is left, inviting viewers to sit with their own discomfort, their own need for meaning, and to reflect on how time, memory, and the natural world intersect in unexpected ways.

As the raw materials of the exhibit—the writing, images, and sounds—began to take shape, I realized that the project was more than just a reflection of my own experience. It was evolving into something that could invite others to engage with it in a meaningful way. That is how The 13th Station concept emerged.

The 13th Station may be seen as a point of deep reflection, a moment of tension between what has been completed and what has yet to come. It is a place of absence, where expectations are not immediately fulfilled but still anticipated, and where one is left to sit with unanswered questions. In this exhibit, The 13th Station represents not just my journey, but the space where others can bring their own experiences, their own questions, and their own unresolved feelings.

This is not an exhibit to simply observe—it is an exhibit to engage with. Visitors are invited to meditate as they move through the images and sounds. There may be times when physical materials are available for writing reflections, but even when they are not, the opportunity to contribute exists on the website. The space allows for interaction, where visitors can write their thoughts and leave them as part of the ongoing conversation—whether in person or online.

The process of creating this exhibit taught me that meaning is not found in finality, but in the interaction between what we see, hear, feel, and create in response. And now, The 13th Station has become a place for others to do the same.

By engaging with the exhibit—whether by contributing thoughts online, sitting in quiet reflection, or simply being present in the space—visitors become part of the ongoing narrative. The exhibit is not finished; it is alive, evolving with each person who interacts with it. Just as the forest and its energy shaped me, this space is shaped by those who come through it. The act of writing, reflecting, and engaging is the exhibit’s true completion, turning it from a static display into an active space for connection as well as absence.