I can’t see them, but surely they are playing and happy with life. Yipping. Like I’ve stuck my head into a creek and am hearing the little stones gurgle and roll as they play. … More From the Journal: Earth and Survival
It is the saguaro that tethers its roots to the stones and it is me that runs over them. We are each with instinct and duty for life and yet I do not belong here. … More Saguaros and The Art of Time
And just like the deer, and how the creek left ridges and curls in the sand, did I leave notions of myself, too. Just like that — we take and are taken. … More In Brief, 2018: My Human Craft
Grief is personal knowledge. We didn’t need to understand. We read the way the poems shaped her shoulders against the white slopes, or the way her head bowed after each one — starting with the chin and ending with the eyelids. Snowflakes dusted her hair and dampened her hands. She’d wipe them against her pants or against her reddening cheeks and she slowly dampened, too, unraveling there in the morning glow. … More From the Journal: Dampened
These feats seem narrow and superficial when I compare them to the work my brain does when dreaming at night. The nightmares are such because they contradict me, risk everything, go beyond the threat of death by hypothetically starting the process. … More The dreams that scare me and how they nurture my curiosity
We quake in defiance of peripheral death. How we all engage in some form of spastic fervor to never be forgotten. Me saying that most climbers choose their mountains for a reason, could also be me saying that most people choose (however subconscious) what is to be perceived as an obstacle in their own lives. … More From the Journal: Echoes
Funny how I impose my loneliness and social anxiety onto them, in that I refuse in having them acknowledge me by refusing to acknowledge them. It really is a matter of self in these moments. … More From the Journal: Exhales of Air
Patrick kneels into the mattress and leans over me.
“Sara,” he whispers. I open my eyes slow—
“The power keeps going in and out.” … More From the Journal: Mountain Farm Life
Fittingly abstract, but alluringly stoic. She is obviously not facing into the light, but she is pensive…who is she?
If I had to pinpoint the questions I asked myself the most this past year, they would be thus: Who am I, really? and What are my intentions? … More My Day of Birth, 2017: Persona
The cracks in my skin and the chalk that settles there, skin woven, white lace over burning sand. These are the things I’ve remembered, among things I carry, ephemeral as the action of having written them down: … More Yosemite Notes: The Things I Carry