my choice to press pause: a gathering of sorts.

i wrote this on september 5, 2010:

there’s something about new mexico and i can’t get my mind off of it. i had little to no ties while i was there, yet felt incredibly grounded.  at a baseball game in santa fe, a man named prairie told me a secret. i can’t tell anyone, because then it wouldn’t be a secret (secrets are nothing but bits of air and time and circumstance, no?), and now all i want to do is run back to the automobile graveyards and stretches of land that contained so much of nothing and so much of everything.

i want to grow sweet potatoes, snap peas, tomatoes, and harvest them with the precision of a surgeon. be able to look out my window and see the clay-colored hills, sprouts of green.  i want to be able to feel the full in the empty.

the empty, like the womb after a child is born.

full, like the child’s lungs fill for the first time, on their own.

my most precious relationships have been the most finite.  i am tired of holding on to things that want to be let go of. and the truth is, i feel my most at home when i am free, moving from place to place.   i feel the most at home when there are no walls.

with walls, i am a child.

i want to place her hands in the dirt and say:  within the next year, you will harvest the most you ever will in your entire life.

you will realize the one relationship you would do almost anything to keep here, in the present, will end.

and then you will know the heaviest secret. tell it to a traveller who happens to see you on your way to who-knows-where.

but it’s all a matter of



and circumstance.

i want to say: child, you will grow, and it will hurt. yet your voice, it will echo as the world hollows, steadying as the world fills.


now, the year has almost passed. it’s time: i’m going to go back west.  last year, what i thought was “finite” has turned out to be much, much more complex and beautiful. i want to understand the cyclical nature of things.  


wrote this today: july 7, 2011


i’ve got myself a shiny, new life

a non-home home is not the world / it’s everything beyond & including earth


once a friend told me about

time/space and


that everyone we’ve ever met is in time/space, waiting for us

i believe i can find everyone i’ve lost right here, in the desert, the forest, the ocean —


i will do anything for peace.

i’ll eat nothing but seeds / i will go without touch for years /

a new life / it’s right here / it begins today

in four weeks i’ll be gone / to california / driving the coast

i will dip into my friend’s lives for just enough time to be part of

but not tied


i belong to no one

that’s the way i was born:

in a pool of water

tumbling without breath

it was easy, drowining

into a new life