The Art of Waiting
I remember sitting on a wooden bench in a park in Kyoto, watching an old man watch a koi pond. He didn't move for nearly an hour. When I finally asked him if he was waiting for something specific, he just smiled and pointed to the water. He…
The First Breath of Day
There is a specific quality to the world just before the sun breaks the horizon. It is a time when the earth seems to hold its breath, suspended between the long rest of the night and the awakening of the light. In this blue-hued interval,…
The Breath of Cold Stone
The air at high altitude has a specific texture; it feels like thin, sharp silk against the back of the throat. It tastes of damp pine needles and the metallic tang of frost that hasn't yet surrendered to the sun. I remember waking in places…