A couple months ago the lovely folks over at The Tattooed Buddha sent me a book to review called The Dharma of Poetry by John Brehm. To say that I simply enjoyed the book is such a dramatic understatement that it simultaneously demonstrates the limitations of our language to express …
I have an almost irrational and obsessive belief in curiosity, that is to say, I believe in being irrationally curious and irrationally obsessed with what makes me curious. I don’t believe in avoiding rabbit holes. Instead, I believe that consistently falling down them is an experience and an activity that …
I find myself unconsciously slipping into the usage of a morbid mantra. Countless times throughout the day I catch the myself uttering a low and guttural chant underneath my breath: “Is this it? Is this all there is? Is there nothing more?” I look at my days and an unspoken …
We long for sanctuary. We long for community. We are each, in our own way, found deeply in the throes of the vast and furious longing for home. But sanctuaries are built. Communities are created. Home is something we make. These are all things that are founded, rather than found. …
To the 16 drops of rain laying prostrate on my shoulderMingling with the sweat like a mixture of cassia and myrrhAnointing my resistance with the oil that pulls from the pavement when the heaven’s crack and cryYour brethren come down like confetti singing in a chorus,a psalm sung from the …
Someone special lent me a copy of Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. Nearly ever line of this short work aches with a volume of meaning and luminescence that exceeds the bounds of its brevity. As I was reading it, it was difficult to keep up with …
Last night I had the privilege of being interviewed by Michael Brightside for an episode of his podcast. On top of being a kid and and gracious host, he’s a smart and creative writer, which made for a fun, comfortable, and highly engaging conversation. One of things we talked about …
Does the phoenix ever tire of rising from her own ashes? Maybe each time she is burned downed, bits of her die that don’t come back and the parts that do, are reborn scorched and scarred What if now she simply dreams of sitting Shiva for herself?
Love tears a whole where there wasn’t one before. It does this when it arrives and also when it escapes. And it very rarely leaves the same way it came in. Every time love comes to a close, we simultaneously feel the pain of two wounds: the pain of where …
When I write I do so with a blissful, and sometimes not so blissful, ignorance; a kind of sacred unknowing. I grasp at the ineffable aliveness that undulates underneath my experience of some aspect of the world and I try to give it words. It’s not an endeavor aimed at …
