The work never stops on a farm—especially an old farm, with ceaseless renovations and repairs to see to. Leaking roofs, aging doors, gardens and trees—firewood to cut and stack—chimneys to sweep and water pipes prone to spontaneous eruption. The elements are punishing, the labor…
I was twenty-three the first time I boarded an airplane. For an hour before my flight I sat at a bar in La Guardia, sipping Irish Whisky and vibrating…
Candles flicker in a light breeze, reflecting themselves in glass offering bowls. Wisps of incense drift towards the open window. My knees grimace as I…
On learning Portuguese
I was sitting on one of the balconies of the Convento de Cristo, looking out over Tomar, which was shrouded in amber haze. From the ramparts of the…
I plant flowers while bombs fall in Ukraine. I reach my hands into the damp earth, sewing calendula, clary sage and borage while the lights go out in…
Life can change in an instant. One day you wake up in a cold flat in a loud street in Oakland, and the next you wake up in a cold flat in a loud street…
To love flowers one must be patient. One must wait—observing the slow unfolding of creation. First the leaves emerge, and then all growth seems to stop…
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Letters to My Generation