Day 10 of my Ashtanga commitment is in the books. A streak has begun. Each day I put on the same mandala Yogaz pants, a Lulu fitted tee, and tie my hair up in a bandeau headband. I stand in front of a full-length mirror, greet my image, and begin.
50 Years Later: Revisting Storrs
I waited for my past self to plop down with her heavy backpack. I waited for her to look up and smile at me. To ask me what I was doing there with no notebook, no backpack, no pen, no homework. But she never showed up.
Halfway Day and Q3
I’m done thinking of my life as a through-hike; instead, I think of it like an art project, something I get to design based on whatever happens to be bothering me or intriguing me at the moment. At the moment, that project is about incorporating weights, managing cortisol, and adding more protein to my diet. I want to feel what it would be like to be strong.
Inspired by in June 2026
My Current Internet Kink Bedscapes. Sheets, pillows, blankets, sometimes even towels. I’m following a guy who teaches you how to make your bed. The right way. The proper way. The most aesthetically pleasing way. I used to make beds as a candy striper. I can fold a mean hospital corner. But until this Instagram guy, … Continue reading Inspired by in June 2026
E-Bikes Are Cheating
It would only be cheating if biking were synonymous with pain. If the hard work of biking were the definition of biking, then any amelioration of that pain would disqualify it as biking altogether.
I Don’t Care Anymore
The world completely lost its reality for me. It was only real in the way a novel feels real when I’m engrossed in it—real, but not my reality. I felt myself in a bubble, the world a movie I was watching but not grasping.
Are You On A Journey? Are You Sure?
If this journey metaphor works for you, great, but what if it doesn’t, and you’re just mouthing cultural cliches? Maybe we need to think about how we actually see our lives, and align our metaphors to fit better.
Oh Deer, I Wish I Could Help.
As the date of this shoulder surgery approached, I was looking forward to the reversal of our roles. For once, I would get to do for her what she always does for me. I saw myself administering pain meds, fetching ice, making food, and fluffing pillows. I hated that I cowered in the kitchen, leaving her to take care of that deer. I wished I had told her to, “Rest, honey, I’ll handle it.” But I didn’t. I was afraid to watch that deer suffer and die.
Writing as Practice: What Writers Really Do
The difficulty of being a writer is that you have nothing to show for it. No painting on the living room wall, no ceramic mug in the pantry, no quilt on the bed, no live performance with your name on the program at the concert hall.
What Do You Do?
And even when I got a real-world job with that real-world paycheck, I still got the squirms when I was asked the “What do you do?” question, because that thing that I did, which resulted in that paycheck, never felt like a living. It felt like working. The living was what came after the working.
Inspiration Location 