A large amount of mangos

Last night, I sat on the roof of my apartment building during an unusually cold and rainy evening in Iquitos. It's the weather that helps you remember how small you are.

My partner sat across from me under this enormous mango tree. Its fruit is about 2 weeks from ripeness, but right now it's still hard and green.

It didn't seem to matter, though.

Through the balcony railing, it felt like the tree was attempting to give a mango to my partner—its branches had entered through the railing with a fruit waiting close to his hand.

It's worth pausing to consider the amount of fruit that will soon be available.

We don't need to accept a small amount of mangos.

The Fan Expert

Last night, I went to get my fan fixed.

It was urgent.

The guy who fixed it is a fan expert.

He had about 50 fans all over his workspace.

Several were turned on at once. 

What I thought was a breeze from the door—that was a fan too.

He had every part.

He knew every tiny detail.

Fixed it within a few hours.

He said he only sleeps with one fan.

When it gets hot, you have more clients.

But at night, you just have the one fan blowing on you.

Inner Hospitality

When you think of hospitality, who does that include?

We make space for strangers on the street. We make space for people in our homes. But what’s our inner hospitality like?

I’d hate to live an entire life and never come home.

I am fairly confident that adult life isn’t as much a creation as a perpetual homecoming.

This is the active practice of memory.

You can go out. But you need to come back.

Homecoming on the Dead of the Dead in Iquitos