Writing, occasional and unhurried

Field Notes

Small pieces written from the woods and the hearth. Some are essays. Some are only a paragraph. All of them are written slowly, on purpose.

Autumn Equinox

The dignity of slowing down.

There is a specific kind of courage required to let things die. To sit with the bare branches and trust the roots we cannot see.

Read the note

November 12

What the soil teaches us about grief.

The soil does not hurry the seed. It does not measure. It simply keeps a warm dark space until something is ready to rise on its own weather.

Read the note

Winter Solstice

Finding the light in the longest night.

A candle is not a small sun. It is a different thing entirely — a companion, an agreement, a way of saying we will stay together until morning.

Read the note

First Frost

On the difference between healing and aliveness.

Healing looks backward. Aliveness looks around. One is a repair; the other is a room you finally sit down in.

Read the note

Late Summer

The day I stopped answering questions.

I noticed people left lighter when I asked something back — quieter, but somehow more themselves. So I began to hoard my answers, and hand back the question.

Read the note

Early Spring

Permission is a room you build yourself.

For years I thought I was waiting for someone to hand me a key. It turned out I was already inside, standing near the door, forgetting I could open it.

Read the note