The Zen monk Dōgen wrote, “The green mountains are always walking.” Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Literally. The mountains are walking. If you have ever done mushrooms in a gorgeous setting, you kind of know this to be true. The mountains walk and the trees breathe. Reality itself is alive and in motion. Buddhism asks us again and again to loosen our rigid distinction between what is alive and what is not, between self and other, subject and object. No separation. The separation is often an illusion of perception.

If all things have spirit, then perhaps all things also have desire. The pot enjoys making food. The broom enjoys sweeping. The book enjoys being opened and read. The window wants light to pass through it. We honor objects by allowing them to fulfill their nature, and in return they care for us. This is a kind of mutual aid.

Not mutual aid as a slogan, but mutual aid as cosmology and symbiosis.

We take care of the objects that take care of us. We sharpen them, clean them, oil them, mend them, thank them. Not because we are sentimental, but because relationship requires reciprocity. The knife feeds us, so we keep it sharp and give it crisp vegetables to cut. The shoes carry us, so we repair their soles and clean their laces. The kettle and espresso maker sing water into warmth every morning, so we descale it gently and place it back with care.

Pot wants to cook. Camera wants photos. Knife wants to cut. Pen wants to write. Chair wants someone resting in it. A bell wants ringing. A garden wants tending. The meditation cushion wants your body to soften.

And maybe this is why so much modern life feels spiritually dead. We are surrounded by objects we do not love and do not repair. Things built to break. Things shipped by robots. Things upon things upon things ordered with one click. Things we throw away without gratitude. We no longer live with objects; we consume them. We rarely enter relationship with the world around us, as much as extract from it.

In Buddhism, suffering often begins in the delusion that we are separate from life instead of expressions of it. We imagine ourselves as lonely moving through a world of matter, rather than participants in an endless web of living interdependence. Thích Nhất Hạnh called this “interbeing.” The paper contains the cloud. The cloud contains the rain. The rain contains the tree. The tree contains the logger. The logger contains the bread he ate this morning. Nothing exists independently. Everything belongs to everything else. A bowl is not just a bowl. It is earth, heat, labor, lineage, imagination, sweat, water, play, blood, mineral, hand.

When I wash dishes, I try to remember this. Not always successfully. Sometimes I am still rushing. Still trying to finish the task instead of being the moment. But occasionally, I can feel the sponge getting to sponge, I can feel its joy. I can feel the plate enjoying the cleaning. I can feel the ceremony hidden inside ordinary things. The warm water running over my hands. The plate that held nourishment. The sponge slowly wearing down over years of service. The beautiful intimacy of maintenance and routine.

There is a reason why many a zen teacher will remind you to, “Chop wood. Carry water. Sweep the floor.” Because that is the heart of this practice, Buddha or enlightenment is not after the sweeping, it is the sweeping. It’s not the destination the water arrives at, it’s the water. Buddhist practice is about remembering to simple tasks with reverence. Sweeping floors. Folding robes. Cleaning bowls. Not because we are obsessed with cleanliness, but because attention itself is a form of devotion, as the great poet and sage Mary Oliver reminds us, “Where we put our attention reveals our devotion.” To care for something fully is to acknowledge its existence. To say: I see you. You belong here too. No me without you.

And so we care for the things in our life that give us our life. We build our muscle of care, and our capacity to care. We make care sacred again. We turn maintenance into love.

Mutual aid is older than economics. The forest practices it. Mycelium practice it. Rivers and roots and bees understand what we have forgotten: survival is collaborative. Nothing thrives alone. Even breath is mutual aid. Trees exhale what we inhale. We exhale what they inhale. Every breath is a kind of kiss between species.

The Buddha touched the earth for a reason. Not to escape the world, but to belong to it. Awakening is not becoming less dependent, but becoming more aware of our dependencies with gratitude.

To live this way is to stop seeing the world as inert. To stop imagining ourselves as the only thing with consciousness moving through a dead universe. Maybe peace begins when we understand that the world is constantly asking to participate with us.

The pot says: let me feed your family.

The blanket says: rest.

The candle says: I will hold a small sun for you.

The floor says: I have carried every version of you.

And perhaps our task is simply to listen well enough to answer back: Thank you. I’ll take care of you too.

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On Baldwin / Extreme Action & The Lotus Sutra

I have always been struck by self-immolation, not as spectacle, but as intention. What kind of clarity does it take to offer your body as a message? And is it enough for them to listen?

…

Self-immolation, often described as an extreme act. Fire leaves very little room for ambiguity. It’s immediate. Irreversible. It demands to be seen. But that language - extreme - may reveal more about our distance from such clarity than about the act itself.

There is actually a chapter in the Lotus Sutra in which a Bodhisattva burns his own body as an offering. The story has troubled and fascinated readers for centuries. I think the passage was meant to be taken metaphorically, an image of total devotion, the surrender of ego, the relinquishing of attachment; not to be interpreted with tragic literalness. But history has shown us that metaphor and literalism often live dangerously close together.

Still, the story remains. Fire remains. The image remains.

And maybe what unsettles us is not simply the act itself, but the degree of conviction it reveals. And recently in America, and beyond, we have seen more and more extreme acts of conviction. Such as Luigi Mangione with the United health Care CEO, and Cole Tomas Allen, at the White House Press dinner. A sort of self-immolation maybe? An act to get a message across?

In Buddhism, intention matters. The Buddha says in the Anguttara Nikaya, “It is intention, monks, that I call karma.” Not merely action, but the state of heart behind the action. Again, this does not sanctify destruction or violence. But it does ask us to look more deeply at the conditions that give rise to such acts. Buddhism has never asked us to turn away from suffering. It asks us to look directly at it. To investigate it and engage with it. To understand the roots beneath the visible flames.

The Buddha’s First Noble Truth is not pessimism. It is honesty. There is suffering. There is dissatisfaction and unfairness. There is anguish woven into ordinary life. But perhaps what feels newly dangerous in our current moment is not simply suffering itself, but our inability to remain present with it long enough to understand it. We are constantly turning away. Numbing. Refreshing. Scrolling.

And then we have these chances to stop, to feel an extreme action and take it in.

They even leave us manifestos in case the act isn’t enough for us to see. They arrive after the act, sometimes before it. Typed, posted, recorded, left behind like a final attempt to impose order on chaos. A logic. A justification. A plea. The author insists that what has been done is not senseless, but necessary. That the violence, or the sacrifice, or the rupture, is meant to awaken something dormant in the rest of us (or so they hope). Their ideologies diverge, their grievances are not the same, but beneath both is a shared faith: that an act, dramatic enough, could break through the collective trance. That we would see it and finally ask better questions.

But we do not seem to be waking up or asking such questions. We are watching. We are scrolling. We are maybe even liking and sharing, maybe even agreeing, but are we waking up? Are we seeing?

Somehow these events are quickly turning into content, not a call to transformation, just another thing in the stream of many things. We live in a time when nothing remains singular for long. Tragedy dissolves into a timeline. Outrage becomes aesthetic. Even the most desperate acts meant to shock us into moral clarity are flattened into discourse, clipped into segments, argued into abstraction, and then buried beneath the next wave. Social media did not invent this restlessness of the mind, but it has certainly industrialized it and capitalized off of it.

The extreme act used to function as a kind of moral interruption. It demanded engagement. It asked the viewer to sit inside an uncomfortable logic long enough to either reject it or be changed by it. Now it competes with everything else. It appears in the same feed as an ASMR recipe, a dance, a war, an advertisement, a thirst trap, another advertisement, another thirst trap, another AI rabbit dance video. The terms of attention have changed, and with them, the possibility of being moved seems far, far away.

Thích Nhất Hạnh once wrote, “The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence.” Presence now feels increasingly endangered. We are adjacent to one another, but rarely with one another. Constantly connected, rarely deeply encountered. We know what everyone ate, wore, believed, condemned, purchased, reposted, but not necessarily what they fear. Not necessarily what hurts. Not necessarily what they love enough to protect.

There is a deeper erosion beneath this, one that cannot be reduced to distraction alone. It is not just that we are overwhelmed, it is that we may no longer be imagining. Once, acts of protest, whether nonviolent or extreme, were tethered to visions of a different world. A more just one. A more humane one. Even if those visions were imperfect, they required belief in an alternative. They required the capacity to see beyond what is immediately given. Now it often feels as though we are not building toward anything so much as reacting to everything. Surviving. Managing collapse in real time. We consume so much information and opinions that the muscle required to question the structure itself has weakened. Without that questioning, there is no liberation, only adaptation.

If we don’t know how to take the time to hear and identify the genuine within, we will forever be at the end of strings that someone else pulls. We will never be free. Even when we think we are free, we aren’t. If we are always responding to other people‘s actions and desires and choices, we will never be free.

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That night they interviewed the father of the hostage who was assassinated, “We just got news that the murderers have been assassinated, do you have any comment?”

The father started crying on TV, he said, “I’m sorry that two more people had to die.”

Can you imagine your heart being this open?

Someone assassinated your child and now you’re upset that the people who assassinated him also have to die. It almost doesn’t make sense.

And yet, if you meet resistance with resistance you get war. The only way the cycle ends is to let it go. Small and large - let go.

It starts in traffic, with other people, your family, your enemies, your bosses, the execs, your jealousy, the stories that you have to prove em wrong.

If you meet resistance with resistance (in both small and large ways) you will always get war. Always.

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For mom(s)

Let me go back. I was blessed to spend a few days with a beautiful birth doula, and she began asking me all these questions about my own birth. Was I breastfed? Were there any traumas or complications before or after? Questions, I didn’t know the answers to. Questions, I had never thought to ask my mother.

In relation to Buddhism, what I love about it is the emphasis on death. I read and study the Tibetan book of the dead. I make plays where we consciously die together in 60min. I spend a lot of time thinking about death but not enough, I think, on arrival. We speak often about impermanence, about dissolution, about the great vanishing of things. But birth is also a crossing. A mystery. A coming into, a doorway no less strange than death itself.

So I called my mother, “Mom, will you tell me about my birth?”

My mom said, “Your birth was very original.”

I was born one month early, and the obstetrician who was supposed to deliver me was on vacation. “His name was Dr. Irving Ward Robinson,” she said. “I loved that man.”

My sister had been born premature at seven months, and because of complications during delivery, my mother had needed a C-section. So when she became pregnant with me, her plan was to try for a vaginal delivery. But because I, too, arrived early, her medical records never made it to Saint Luke’s Women’s Hospital. The doctors there didn’t know how the original incisions from the C-section had been done, and they warned her against a vaginal birth. They told her it was too dangerous. That her spine was too unstable. That she could rupture. Bleed out. Die.

She refused. They made her sign paperwork, knowing that she was warned of the complications and potential health risks.

“I said, I know I can do this,” she told me. “I knew we would be okay. And we were.”

I have been thinking about that sentence ever since. I knew we would be okay.

Not hoped. Knew.

There is a quality of faith in Buddhism that is often misunderstood. Not blind belief, but deep knowing. The kind of knowing that can only arise from complete presence with reality as it is. Not optimism. Not denial. Something steadier. A mountain does not hope to remain standing in the wind. It simply stands.

My mother’s certainty felt like that to me. Not ego. Not defiance. Just an unshakable intimacy with life itself. What will be will be, what is, is.

Shortly after my birth, around seven months later, my mother developed severe nerve compression in her spine (I guess the doctors were kind of right). She lost the ability to walk and had to be rushed to the hospital. She was placed in traction for weeks, unable to see me.

My mom said, “I’ll never forget Mother’s Day. The nurses let your father sneak you in to see me. When I held you, you cried because you didn’t know who I was.”

Then she paused… “I had to rebuild that bond with you.”

There is something devastating about that to me. Beautiful too. That love is not always instant recognition. Sometimes love is rebuilding. Sometimes love is returning to each other after separation. Often love is returning, a beginning again, as Thích Nhất Hạnh writes, “Every moment is a chance for us to begin again.” Sometimes the bond breaks and asks to be made again.

Buddhism teaches that attachment is the root of suffering, but I have never understood that teaching to mean we should not love deeply. Only that we must understand the fragile nature of all things. Every bond changes shape. Every relationship asks to be renewed again and again. Every role might end, and might be returned to. Nothing stays fixed, not even mother and child. Especially not mother and child.

The Buddha lost his mother shortly after birth. Mahamaya died seven days after bringing him into the world. Sometimes I think about how the very figure we imagine as awakened entered life through rupture and loss too. Even enlightenment begins in separation.

But the part that stays with me most is what came next. I asked my mother if she had ever had any miscarriages or losses before me. She told me she had miscarried once before I was born.

“What does that mean to you?” the doula asked me.

I told her I didn’t know.

But my mother said something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since: “If we had that child before you, we probably would have stopped there.”

Stopped there.

And suddenly I found myself wondering about the great koan: “what is my original face?” a face I imagine lives there, before the rebirth. I wonder, would that first birth still have been me? Or would I have never arrived at all? Or somewhere else? Where would all this energy have gone? This strange, aching, searching awareness I call myself? Would it have dissolved back into some larger field waiting for another opening? Another body? Another story?

Buddhism asks us to meditate deeply on the illusion of the fixed self, but moments like this make me feel the mystery of continuity. If there is no permanent self, then what is it that travels forward? What is reborn? We have been on this earth, had as many lives as it takes for a hawk to wipe away the tip of a mountain with a scarf. A flame passed from one candle to another is not the same flame, and yet something continues. Karma ripples forward. Causes and conditions unfold endlessly into new forms.

Something about it feels divine to me.

As a Buddhist, I think often about the stories of monks choosing their rebirths with astonishing precision. Choosing the time, the place, the mother, the conditions through which they will return. I once knew a woman from Boston who told me a story about being in a salon owned by a Nepalese family when a group of monks walked in. They went directly to a little boy sitting beside his mother and told her, “Your son is a Rinpoche. He must come study with us.” Eventually, she let him go with them back to Nepal.

Is there some peaceful waiting room before life? Some great quiet emptiness before we enter this dream of form and grief and memory. And if so, what is that place? What existed before the first word was spoken? Before the first child pointed at the dark and called someone mother?

Whether these stories are literally true has become less important to me over time. Buddhism is less interested in certainty than intimacy. The question is not, Can you prove rebirth? The question is: How should you live if everything is deeply interconnected? If nothing truly disappears? If your actions echo far beyond the visible edge of your own life?

Emptiness - Śūnyatā - is not a void in the Western sense. It is boundlessness. Interdependence. The understanding that no thing exists independently from any other thing. he origin of all created things. The vast, unknowable field from which everything emerges and to which everything eventually returns. A cloud becomes rain. Rain becomes trees. Trees become paper. Paper becomes this essay. My mother becomes me. I become whatever comes next.

And maybe that fearlessness my mother carried into the delivery room did not begin with her alone. Maybe I arrived already carrying some ancient momentum toward life. Maybe somewhere, before any of this, I heard her say, We will be okay.

And believed her.

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The man was older and so his text were magnified, big ol’ bubble text. He was texting his wife, “God, why do I have to sit next to a trans person.”

She saw it. And you could feel it immediately, the air shifted. She asked, “Why do you hate me?”

He got defensive, “Why are you looking at my phone?”

To which they responded, “Because your blind ass has the letters all fucking huge.”

After enough back and forth between them, I found myself offering them my seat, to which they graciously accepted.

Now I sat next to him and his big bubble text, and asked, “What’s wrong with sitting next to them?”

Now this man, a little smaller now, started apologizing. To me. To us. Saying he didn’t mean it like that. That he made a mistake. That he was embarrassed and ashamed.

He didn’t make a mistake. He revealed something. What was that text really? Not hate in the loud, burning-cross sense people like to distance themselves from. It was something quieter, and something many old white men hate most of all - discomfort.

Discomfort with what he didn’t understand. Discomfort with someone who holds more than one truth in a single body. Discomfort with the collapse of the categories he was taught would keep the world stable.

That man likes clean lines, likes certainty, likes knowing where to place people, and when someone showed up who cannot be easily placed, something in him panicked. Bodies of culture, and everyone outside of the white gaze has suffered from the manic of white men who refuse to let in another POV, another anything that isn’t them.

Othering is what we do when we are scared of complexity. We push someone out so we don’t have to expand. If he expanded and let in another person or another way of being, maybe he’d see that the categories don’t work. And if the categories don’t work, then what else isn’t true?

I told him not to apologize to me, but to sit there. To feel the discomfort. To let it stretch him.

Also, fuck your comfort sometimes.

Engaged Liberation is a labor of love. But it is labor. If you love it, support it for less than $5/mo. Thank you!

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You might also like: The Airport Practice

You might also like: Dear Woman on The Plane Next to Me

You might also like: Dear Young Man on The Plane Next to Me

For me it is a longing. I have always had this longing in me. I have always asked, how do I share this longing? How do I share the flower of myself hidden underneath layers? How do I share that I am strange and strong and a child and a flower hidden underneath layers dying to be seen? Not by a mirror, which is a distorted image that my mind doesn’t let me really see. I don’t even think it’s by a person. This is why I am deeply in love with solitude. Either because it is the deepest moments where the flower hidden underneath can bloom or it is me, pretending that being alone is better than the feeling of others seeing what I cannot see. And so in my heart, I try to strip myself naked. For you. For me. For the flower hidden underneath. This is how I feel when I am alone. It’s not so bad.

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Engaged Liberation is a labor of love. But it is labor. If you love it, support it for less than $5/mo. Thank you!

You kept repeating, “Worst seat ever.” Then again, louder, “Worst seat ever.”

Compared to what? There are way worse seats and way worse airlines and worse people to sit next to (if I may say so myself).

You could be in the middle seat (like me). you could be standing. You could not be in at all. There are a hundred people on this plane who would trade seats with you.

There’s that old Louis C.K. joke about the man complaining his Wi-Fi isn’t working on a plane. “Give it a second,” he says. “It’s going to space.” And the man is still mad. People are frustrated about slow WIFI on airplanes. You are sitting in a leather seat in the sky, flying hundreds of miles an hour at 36 thousand feet and you’re furious that the internet is slow.

You were that joke, but not a joke. You were real. Your frustration was real. Which is what made it harder to watch. You were existing in a miracle and all you could feel was lack.

How did we get here? Is this where we want to be? How did we learn to measure miracles against upgrades? To turn abundance into inconvenience? To sit inside the impossible and call it insufficient?

And I’m not above it. I’ve done this too. Mistaken expectation for reality, confused comfort for entitlement, turned blessings into baseline. But watching you, I felt something like grief. Not for your seat, but for your sight. Because what you had was not the worst seat ever. What you had was a front row to the sky.

And still, it wasn’t enough. Is this where we want to be?

People who cannot recognize the wonder we are sitting inside of? People who arrive already disappointed? People who need more, always more, just to feel okay?

I don’t think so.

I think there is another way to move through the world, one where we notice. One where we pause. One where we understand that not everything we didn’t get is a loss.

Sometimes it’s just… what is. And sometimes what is… is extraordinary. Next time, I hope you look out the window. Even if it’s not your window. Because the sky is still there. Holding all of us.

You might also like: The Airport Practice

You might also like: Dear Woman on The Plane Next to Me

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There is a failure of love in this country. Both personal and public. We have forgotten how to love. We have forgotten that love does not free us …

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I’m sharing it here because this conversation isn’t just for that room, it’s for all of us navigating identity, value, and belonging in a world that still gets our names wrong.

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Engaged Liberation is a labor of love. But it is labor. If you love it, support it for less than $5/mo. Thank you!

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Make sure to check out all things To Get To The Mango Tree and let us know what you think about all this genius and beauty and these gems.

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Engaged Liberation is a labor of love. But it is labor. If you love it, support it for less than $5/mo. Thank you!

The arrow points forward and we follow it like it’s the only path through time.

But land doesn’t move in arrows. The land moves in circles.

A tree does not grow in a straight line toward success. It grows in rings. Each year wrapped around the last. The story of its life is circular, layer upon layer, time folded back into itself.

The moon circles the earth. The earth circles the sun. Seasons circle back to themselves. Winter does not fail because spring comes again. Nothing in nature panics about repeating itself. And yet we do.

We have now been raised to believe that repetition means stagnation. That going in circles means you are stuck, lost, failing to move forward. Somewhere along the way we decided that circles meant failure and arrows meant success. But if you spend any time in sacred spaces across cultures, you’ll notice something different. In Buddhism, practitioners walk slowly around a stupa in a circle, again and again, as a meditation. The point is not to get somewhere. The point is to be where you are, always arriving and being simply where you are.

Mandalas, those intricate spiritual diagrams. are circular worlds meant for contemplation. They pull the eye inward and outward at the same time, reminding us that life unfolds in patterns rather than straight lines. In many Indigenous traditions, people gather in circles to make decisions. No one sits at the head of the room because the room has no head. Everyone can see everyone else.

A circle distributes power. A line concentrates it.

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This difference may explain more about the modern world than we realize. Because lines are incredibly useful if your goal is control. When humans began forcing the land into lines, something changed in our thinking too. We started believing the world was something to be optimized rather than something to belong to.

Agriculture, especially the industrial kind, draws lines across the land. Rows of crops stretching in perfect geometric obedience. The field becomes a grid. A spreadsheet made of soil.

Before that, the land was something else entirely. A living system of relationships. Plants growing where they belonged. Animals moving through ancient migratory routes. Fire, rain, soil, and wind participating in cycles much older than us. Every year leaves fall, rot, feed the soil, and become trees again. Every tide returns. Every breath you take is a small circle: inhale, exhale, inhale again. Land was not a machine. It was a circle of life.

Even our own lives refuse to cooperate with linear logic. Grief circles back over and over. Joy circles back. Old fears circle back. Love returns in new forms. We keep meeting ourselves again and again. Even death, which we fear as the end of the line, is simply another return to the larger cycle of matter and life. Nothing is wasted in a circle. Your body is evolving and decomposing all at the same time (we are only briefly not soil). From the moment you are born you aren’t going anywhere but home to where you started.

In a circle no one or no thing is the center. And we have centered ourselves and our experiences, and this centering ourselves in the world has caused tremendous pain. For us and for the world. I often talk about how we have forgotten the land, it has become my new obsession, I think many of the illnesses afflicting us arise from our disconnection from the natural world. When we failed to see this connection, we make choices through short term lenses rather than a long-term one. This is why many Native traditions speak about making choices with the next seven generations in mind. It’s not a metaphor. It’s a way of understanding time as responsibility rather than acceleration. We are already someone’s ancestors. The circle asks for participation.

To live in a circular way is to live in a more indigenous way - in many Indigenous cosmologies, time is not something that stretches out in front of us like a road. Time is relational. The ancestors are still present. The future generations are already part of the decisions we make today. Because of this, you make a commitment to making decisions with the next seven generations in mind. The circle holds everyone. You zoom out to a long-term perspective. And to include the earth in this circle, include others makes us both not so human centered and not so me centered.

I believe that when you care for someone and the world in this way you are also then caring for yourself. If they thrive, you thrive. I know - it sounds nice, but how and when and really in a world that looks like this? Yet, I believe in this work even in the face of this. For example, medicine and science works and people are still sick, should we abandon medicine? The process of circular and compassionate thinking works and still there is illness - doesn’t mean we should stop administering it.

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This is for all my actors. The Oscars are a hard day for me. In case you can’t tell, I’ve never been nominated for one. By this point in my life, I genuinely thought it would have happened. (I did have some of my guest work stuff submitted for Emmy Co…

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This was too short of a conversation. You are going to love every bit of this. You will be lit up by it.

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I promise you - a part II is coming soon. Make sure to check out How To Cure a ghost and all of Fariha’s beautiful work. And let us know what you think in the comments on all the powerful and medicinal gems. What should we chat about in Part II?

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I say this with love. I hope his guacamole is always perfectly salted and that he never stubs his toe, but we need to talk about this.

Because if Glen Powell is a movie star, then something deeply strange has happened, somewhere a machine decided this man was charisma… And the rest of u…

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I want to invite you to something special and a long time coming!

From May 7th–10th, I am hosting a Dharma Retreat in Mexico City - a few days set aside to step outside the machinery of consumption and return to the simple miracle of being here together.

We will move through the city in silence and community—practicing both sitting and walking meditation, letting the streets become our temple and the present moment our teacher. We will eat beautiful, nourishing meals, share in a cacao ceremony, and study the Dharma, not as an abstract philosophy, but as a lived experience.

This retreat is meant to be a respite. A pause. A remembering. A chance to fall back in love with this moment and with one another.

The cost covers housing, meals, a full program of activities & experiences not to mention some surprises along the way.

I would love to have you with us.

Sample flow of our days: Meditation / silent strolls / tasty tacos / journaling / altar-building / tea sits / deep listening / Dharma talks / laughter / rest / free time / cacao / silence and rest / presence….

Hit me up to learn more and book a spot.

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Engaged Liberation is a labor of love. But it is labor. If you love it, consider supporting it for just $5/mo. Thank you!

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America feels like chaos magic with a corporate budget. We wished for comfort, freedom, convenience, a bet…

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And if I’m being honest, that reminder can irritate me before it saves me. Because it can feel like a detour from the reality on the gro…

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A friend once asked me, “Are you an artist if no one sees it?” The question landed like a koan, sharp, simple, not really meant to be answered and maybe something I could live myself into understanding. Maybe.

This quest…

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