A tender reflection woven through EMT experience and the people who love them. A story about what lingers after the call, and the small ways we learn to hold pain and love together.

Snapshots of granular moments of becoming as I work toward an aim to develop finer discrimination and attention.

As we slow down to explore subtle inner experiences weaving through daily-ness, fleeting felt senses of a different quality shimmer.

I’ve been carrying an evocative question as I continue this work of “becoming.”

Last week, my friend Janice sent me a text about climate grief, imagination, and the longing for stories that might call us into presence and co-creation. As I replied, I wondered whether what moves hearts is not narrative alone, but the presence from which a narrative is spoken.

We are alive, friends. It’s painful and exquisite. There is so much darkness. It’s real. Death is all around us. Unaddressed pain has mixed with power and fragmented us, but we are encircled by a Love that is permeating the darkness in the most creative ways. 

There’s a communal nature to wisdom. Our journeys overlap — sometimes in physical life, and sometimes outside of it — words and presence across time and space.

Like Amanda and Graham in The Holiday, I’m meeting this next moment with a heart as open as I can muster, taking a step into the unfamiliar.

For much of my life, I sought answers before I began walking. I'm finding practices that support me in living into the questions.

A tender letter for Christian parents navigating fear, faith, and love when a child comes out as gay. Reflections on presence, moral injury, and flourishing together.

I’m holding space for our tender hearts, heavy with tensions and contradictions, the places we feel unseen and in between.

A “dark night of the soul” is a season of spiritual disorientation—when what we once knew feels out of reach. This post offers a gentle map of what it can feel like, a reframe from “why” to “how,” and practical handholds for moving through obscurity.

The teachers who have shaped me invited me — whether explicitly or in the way they uniquely inhabited their life and calling — to engage with my soul.

Finding fluency in my nervous system’s signals doesn’t mean life is easy or that I’m perfect, it means that I am learning. The learning has happened little by little in the tiniest of increments that I’ve savored the heck out of.

I awoke from a dream two years ago with a playful image, a new way of orienting to my faith: Magic Eye Art.

Here's a poem of grounding, written from myself to myself. These words are an anchor to guide my home.

How do we move in freedom, agency, and sacred responsibility — freedom for the flourishing of all beings and Love itself?

We all have had or will have moments like these when we get news that changes life as we knew it and leaves us wondering if we even really savored our “before.”