Writings · Essays & Letters

Putting what we have lived into words is its own kind of healing.

I write about grief, trauma, ceremony, belonging, and the challenging work of remaining in relationship with what is real.

These essays are not written from outside the questions. They emerge from lived experience, from the people and places that teach me, and from listening long enough for something true to become visible.

Writing is another way of tending.

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Incense burning beside Lake Atitlán at dusk

Maybe what’s missing isn’t a sharper definition of ceremonial. Maybe it’s fewer people trying to own the word, and more people willing to tend what it’s supposed to protect.

Not as a title. Tending isn’t a credential received once. To tend a fire. To tend a relationship. To tend a wound, a plant, the distance between what you long for and what you’re actually responsible to.

There’s no certificate in tending. No final arrival. Only the work that has to be done again tomorrow.

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