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It was time to open the season of kiting. In search of a windy place I came to the suburbs. There the sand spit between two estuaries, and only one inhabitant – a tree. It found the power to grow here and becoming strong. This tree shows an example to those who can see it.
There is a sacred rhythm to the things we prepare for one another. Often, we move through our days with such haste that we forget the hands that kneaded the dough or the patience required for the oven to do its work. To sit before a simple offering is to acknowledge the passage of time […]
I remember the dust of the alleyways in late afternoon, when the sun hangs low and turns every stray particle into gold. There was a rhythm to those hours, marked not by clocks, but by the sound of things hitting the earth—the slap of a ball, the scuff of a shoe, the hum of a […]
