When I walked into the book store I didn't know what to expect. I was there to create a collage and I was looking for a velvet chair. I sat down with a piece of card board as my impromptu desk. I was equipped with a small pile of books already looked through, some scraps, scissors, and a glue stick. As I flipped through page after page, going from a book to magazines... I found a list of Regional Tejano plants, one says Mexican, another says "drought-resistant". I found Tejano architecture. Tejano cats. A Tejano elder. Tejano texture. What do the fabrics I am seeing, say to me? What is the texture? I realize now, I am the texture that I find.  Who would have thought these images would land on my lap. What is the probability that I would see myself in the glossy pieces of paper? I am not reduced. There is dignity. There is humanity in what I find. 

   Our texture doesn't diminish because someone says so. It burns to the taste, it nourishes, it heals, it preserves, it energizes, it moves you, and it doesn't fade because of the elements. It is vibrant. The vivid colors are on everything. It can not be contained. Only expanded. One plant description said evergreen. Our texture is evergreen. 

Our texture permeates the fibers of this country. So much so that you would only distinguish it if someone pointed it out to you.

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He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. 

Psalm 1:3