You can use it.

Your confusion—use it to enter confusion's mind. Let your character understand because you lived inside that great human ball of it, and claimed your piece.

You can document soundscapes in the backyard via black ink. Those sounds are yours too.

The screaming baby—use it to be grateful you're childless.

The past—use it to remember the present exists. You're alive. This isn't over.

Homework, home country—use them to remember high school photos, darkroom hours. The one-act play you taught.

Your disappointment with humanity—use it to remember disappointing yourself and how you forgave yourself too.

We are forgiven.

You are forgiven.

You can use it, all.

On Looking Up

I'm guilty of forgetting to look up.

I walk through a horizontal world where things are flat and long. But we live in both dimensions. Things stretch far beyond where my eyes naturally land. Buildings rise just floors above my eyeline.

There are lines that connect this human dimension with others—thin antenna bodies reminding us that this single line of sight misses the fifth and sixth stories.

We can look down too, into the earth. What's down there? How much have you really thought about it? The vertical extension—all those bones below, all that dark matter above, and here you are looking at your phone again.

Above and below.

Most of it outside our eyeline.

Above and below.

An Independence Day Blessing

We are privileged to be here briefly.

In the infinite expanse of the universe, our existence is an improbable gift.

Of the little we control, we choose what action we take and what holds our attention.

May we approach our days with care and responsibility.

May we tend to what's in our power with care.

May we be wise in granting our attention.

May we always be free.