The Salt of Time
The smell of rain hitting hot, dry earth always brings me back to the feeling of grit under my fingernails. It is a coarse, honest sensation, like the rough weave of a burlap sack against a tired shoulder or the dry, papery skin of a fruit…
The Architecture of Belonging
The male weaver bird spends his days stripping blades of grass into long, flexible ribbons, weaving them into a complex, inverted flask that hangs precariously above the water. It is an act of pure architecture, a structure built not for shelter,…
The Weight of Water
I remember sitting in a quiet cafe in Vancouver, watching a woman at the next table struggle to untangle a pair of headphones. She was so focused on the knots that she didn't notice the rain beginning to streak the glass beside her. We spend…