“God created war so that Americans would learn geography.” ~ Mark Twain

Author’s Note: Thanks to a local art collective (formerly known as Volume, now S.P.A.C.E.), I have had 3 photos, 2 poems, a 2-D collage & a 3-D collage displayed in exhibitions at various art galleries around town. It has felt incredible to take my secondary medium (visual rather than writing) to new heights as I continue to evolve & grow as both artist & creative spirit…

I don’t worry what being anti-war will do to my career, because I’m a human being before I’m anything else. Being anti-war is as American to me as apple pie & baseball are supposed to be, even if most citizens of this country would disagree. What I mean is that being openly, oftentimes loudly, against war is the only way I’m able to label myself an "American without losing my lunch to the nearest trash can. While some enjoy a sense of pride in saying where they come from, I feel profound shame… I believe many citizens do, at this point, if we have been paying attention to world news & our behavior on global stages. The United States is one of the biggest bullies of other countries that has ever existed, & our recent performance has been tantamount to a childish tantrum.

By declaring myself a pacifist, I’m establishing that I’m also against capitalism, imperialism, nationalism, & any other extremism for which war is waged... I’ve felt this way for so long that I can’t even remember when I started feeling this way, what my initial reasons for becoming one were, or why I felt the need to label myself. I called myself an environmentalist as early as age 9, when I first learned about endangered & extinct species—but, for most of my childhood, I felt humans were the problem & that only nature needed our protection. Yet, at some point in my adolescence, I began to understand that humanity was a part of nature & that some human populations were significantly more at risk than others… (Of course, I also learned how devastating war is to the planet!)

When I was an undergraduate, I came across a book by Vandana Shiva & was introduced to the term “ecofeminism” for the first time. (I later had the real pleasure of attending a lecture by her when I was a graduate student!) This helped me draw parallels between the way people—particularly women—are treated with the way our planet has been pillaged, plundered, & polluted over the course of centuries... War encourages this extraction mentality—which is deeply rooted in misogyny—that has plagued the West since Industrialization, & foolish empires have risen & fallen under the rule of leaders who would’ve conquered an entire continent if they could. When I was a graduate student, I discovered the teachings of Peace Pilgrim, & my perspective shifted yet again:

I finally came to understand that every single individual must make the effort to achieve inner peace for us to ever be able to achieve any lasting world peace. 🕊️

But this realization hit me like a ton of bricks because I realized the work that needed to be done was the same work I’d been avoiding… Working on myself.

That meant it didn’t matter how many meetings I organized in solidarity with others, how many protests I attended, or how many times I talked about the importance of peace… If I couldn’t create peace for myself or carry it around inside of me. At age 24, I saw the mountain I had to climb & it loomed before me, looking steeper than ever. I was a bundle of raw nerves who rarely felt a moment’s peace on a good day—so how was I going to ground myself enough to achieve something even remotely close to inner peace? I had spent so long looking outwards, focused on rearranging the furniture on the exterior, that the interior had been abandoned to my numerous anxieties, biggest doubts, & worse fears. In short, it was a mess. I was one of the messiest humans I knew.

That was the beginning of a full decade of therapy for me, which included a ton of trial & error with a dozen different counselors—half of whom told me there wasn’t anything they could do for me, & a handful who were overpriced hacks trying to sell me more talk therapy. Inner peace turned out to be even trickier to reach than I initially thought it would be… I tried everything from changes in diet to exercise, a fair amount of drugs & stints of sobriety, more than one religion & spirituality, health gurus, self-help books, pilgrim quests, psychic readings, & even more esoteric means. It was like an obsession… My search became increasingly desperate, until I spiralled & lost myself in it for a few years, then had to return to myself one painstakingly slow step at a time.

It wasn’t until I was in my mid-30’s & living overseas that I found a therapist I felt comfortable enough with to agree to try medication. I’d become fluent in a foreign language, which was the only way I could even talk to this therapist, & was diagnosed with the first (of six) conditions I was struggling with. A light flickered at the end of that long tunnel… It was dim, but it was getting slightly brighter. A few years later, I would add marijuana & daily meditations to the mix. My moments of peace began to expand into mornings, entire days, then several weeks of feeling peaceful. It has only been about five years so far, yet I reached several months of peacefulness recently… At age 40, I finally feel like I’ve become a stable enough person & partner to actually call myself at peace.

Last August, just two months short of my 40th birthday, I had another collage exhibited at a gallery here in town. This time, the work was a 3-D piece made with found objects & featuring two toy soldiers aiming their guns at flocks of golden butterflies united by a single thread that mimics the path of the bullet. I titled it “Don’t Shoot” & hoped it would present a straightforward message about my stance on weapons taking innocent lives. But what I didn’t include in my artist statement—displayed for the audience to read next to my work—was anything about what it took to get to this place inside of me… The place from which I can regard all life as valuable, yet not fall apart at the mere mention of violence. It is a place from which I can create meaning with my entire being.

Though it is not a permanent state of being, like I initially believed, mindfulness flickers in & out of my mind as minute observations or little moments of zen. 🧘‍♀️

I’m still learning to resist the temptation to capture these moments in a haiku or by reaching for my camera… Learning to simply enjoy them quietly instead.

If I made it this far, it is thanks to poetry, even though I already know writing poems is going to be a more modest part of the process going forward. If you made it this far, it is doubtless thanks to some kind of art or creative practice into which you’ve woven ancestral memory & channeled generations of woe… We carry the trauma of our forebearers, after all, so the grief must either be expressed or expunged in some form. I’m grateful to my friends, particularly those willing to do the difficult soul-work alongside me: The wild women who “sing over the bones,” as Mexican-American writer (& Jungian psychoanalyst!) Clarissa Pinkola Estés calls it, or who plant seeds the way we’re encouraged to by & our other indigenous leaders. The time is now.

~ Read more about this particular show in the June 2026 issue of Polk Arts! ~

{ Pt. 2 of this essay will feature better photographs of the artwork in question }

I’m thrilled to share that I’ve had two pieces accepted by Space Art Collective for the latest installment in their radical series of local shows! This time, it’s a SPACE INVASION in collaboration with the Depot Arts District & will be on display for just one evening only… But there will be all of the usual treats—including vendors, performers, bands, & artists from around the area. So if you also find yourself around the area (& happen to be available on Saturday, March 21st from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m.), then I hope you stop by to feast your soul.

I’ve heard through the grapevine this isn’t a show to be missed—should one be interested in participating in (or at least listening to) the most interesting conversations about art happening around here. But if you can’t drop in, don’t fret too much—you’ll still get to see my work after the exhibit is taken down, & I get around to sharing it… But that could be a month (or even a year) from now, because I’m the world’s slowest poster. I suppose I should mention that the work I’ll have on display are protest poems from my current manuscript…

I’ve been working on this book for a decade, & it’s finally taken shape enough for me to share parts of it with the world. It’s powerful, & I’m pretty proud of it—which is part of why I’ve been sitting on it for so long. This will be the first time poems from it appear in the wild, & I’m eager to see how an audience responds to them. I honestly can’t wait for this event… I have the feeling it’s going to be life-altering in a real way. There are some incredibly inspiring movements happening on the ground, & I believe this community is one! 🪧

“As we’re prompted to monetize our hobbies, sell our bodies, & offload our brains to make more room for advertisements; what new forms of artistic expression can we imagine now at the end of history? […] What can we invent now, as artists, to make the future look appealing? What histor[ies] can we reference to caution [others] of what’s to come? What new medium can we create to inspire the masses? It’s time to shape a new vision & extend an invitation…” ~ S.P.A.C.E.

~ Read more about this particular show in the June 2026 issue of Polk Arts! ~

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

~ Samuel Beckett

What started as a summer hiatus now seems to have turned into an autumnal hermitage, which I don’t yet know whether I’ll manage to shake for the winter—or not. Meaning, I have spent several months rearranging the literal—as well as figurative—furniture of both my home & heart. In truth, I’ve been sleeping far too much, & gotten nearly nothing one might call “productive” done… But this has come with rich rewards! I’ve reconnected with myself, with a few dearly missed friends of bygone eras, & have even made a few new connections. It’s been years since I chose to prioritize relationships, & it’s truly gratifying to rediscover skills for making others—especially children & teenagers—feel both safe & seen… It has also been rather gratifying to realize that I finally feel both safe & seen. I know I’ll be unwrapping the gifts this year has dropped into my lap for many seasons to come. Yet I want to reflect on one feeling in particular in this post, as well as share the work of art (a collage) which I feel most proud of creating to date… 🕊️

Sometimes we fail… We fail to find the words—to comfort a grieving friend, or to describe an aching feeling. We can fail to protect the ones we love from coming to harm—or worse, we can turn out to be what harms them most. But hardest, & perhaps most frequently of all—we fail ourselves all of the time… What matters most is what happens next. The steps we take here will be the shakiest, & feel like the most difficult—but they determine the core essence of our very being… Particularly in the sense of our being in communion with others. Among my chiefest faults—I would readily list the direct admission, & the full acceptance of my many shortcomings. In short, I don’t particularly relish being confronted about where I’m currently dropping the ball… Since (chances are) I already know, & have been hyper-fixating on it—but thank you!

Sure, few among us could admit to ever feeling truly eager to admit defeat. In ancient Greece, they tried to teach through spectacle & theater that hubris is often the downfall of man. After that, the Book of Genesis tried to convince us the woman was responsible… But we’ll digress someday. To err is human, after all, & our imperfections certainly do play a large part in what separates us from the divine. I have to wonder, in that case, what thin device separates us from the demonic? I shudder to think that only prayer has that power, but that is what I was taught as a child. It’s little wonder I’m often spiraling into dark philosophical doubts… Forgive me, dear (few remaining) readers—if I stumble drunkenly down streets of superstition, fall into foxholes of absolute nonsense, or disappear behind a burning bush to relive myself for a moment.

The difficult truth I most hate to admit is that I’ve failed at so many different things—so many times—that I’ve had to learn to make it into a little game I’ll play with myself… One in which nobody really keeps a score, the points don’t make sense or matter, & the only way I can possibly lose is by not laughing at myself along the way. Essentially, I got so used to failure that I had to learn to have fun with it—even if it rarely felt enjoyable. The one who I have to credit for equipping me with such a necessary life skill would have to be my father… But I wouldn’t feel this gratitude or so generously towards him until tragically recently—as we each underwent individual evaluations for a late diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder. Time has smoothed our roughest edges out, yet it was a long road of stumbling (& of often bumping into each other) to get here.

I see it in so many students I’ve worked with… Ones who become the class clown (like my father did) to cope with the frustration of falling ever further behind their peers—especially emotionally/developmentally—due to a lack of complete diagnosis or unpicked up on learning disability. Others who become artists (like I did) & withdraw socially—seeking attention only on the page or stage aka where it's deemed appropriate to do so. But then I burned out… As anyone using art as their biggest tool to cope who then attempts to make a living off said art most likely will (without other supports in place). I hate to say it, dear readers, but I wonder whether some of us are simply set up for failure from the start… In a society that shames our children until they give up clapping, dancing, drawing, drumming, painting, singing—or expressing joy.

If I could go back & say anything to my younger self (& if I could be certain that I’d actually listen), I would try to convince a far more energetic but less experienced me to try to be less afraid of failure from the start. To think—how frequently that fear gripped & ultimately paralyzed me until I lost almost every joyful expression I knew (besides poetry… Until the day I lost that, too.) Only to discover halfway through this life that it was in that holy & fertile ground of my greatest failures which I was able to grow, & to prune myself of sorrow. That pushing past failure is where I found satisfaction or any personal success—as though it were failure itself which fertilized the fruit & flowers. It may be an overly simplistic & all too perfumed approach—but as I once called myself a poet, I’ve been known to take those from time to time. (Another fault, I guess!)

My father is one of those rare people who never stopped expressing joy. He didn’t let the world dictate how he should live his life, overcame obstacles I couldn’t possibly fathom experiencing, & has never really stopped evolving. His laughter is infectious, & he is constantly cracking himself up with his own jokes. I’m convinced that he & I were a pair of circus clowns in another life—much to the endless dismay of my exceedingly patient mother. But he taught me the lessons I’ve been most grateful for, as of late: How to laugh at myself. How to get back up regardless of how often I fall due to my own clumsiness, or am knocked back down by circumstances. How to bring out the best in others by being their biggest fan. How to survive hardship, & maintain that sparkle in the eyes . I know he won’t read this—but I’m glad he’s still around.

~ fin ~

p.s. He’s still alive, he’s just not a big reader! But don’t worry guys, I’ll probably read it to him & he’ll probably just shrug his shoulders & quote some movie I’ve never even heard of then we’ll both go down parallel rabbit holes of absurd jokes.

“Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear,
I do not know.” ~ Anne Sexton

I love how this newsletter is quickly becoming a collection of who I used to be, who I currently am, and who I still wish to become… It feels like I’m exploring the elements of my process—not just as a poet, but as a person—before transforming them from raw material into something I hope to…

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“A river can't forgive because it is only capable, in the first place, of love. A river loves the dumpers, the polluters, the slayers, the nest-thieves, the bird-killers, the dammers, the water-stealers.” ~ Janisse Ray

My very first email address was environment.helper@yahoo.com… I still remember using (and maybe even making) it to enter a contest on the

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I’ve been reticent to make a subscriber only post because I dislike how exclusive it feels—not to mention how that exclusivity feels weaved into the mission statement of this platform’s core function & design… But my hand is finally being forced by the constant judgement & blatant censorship of women’s bodies in basically all of the other digital domains—as well as the fact that I work with younger students now. So after a lengthy amount of compassionate debate with myself, my partner, & several other trusted cohorts—I’ve decided to start putting my most revealing artwork out there with as much security publishing behind a paywall can offer (which isn’t a lot).

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I started writing stories when I was six, but I was given my first point & shoot camera the day I turned nine. This show marks a milestone which I’m feeling truly proud of, because—despite experimenting with photography for a large part of my life—I’ve never experienced the thrill of seeing my work hanging alongside that of other talented artists (besides when I was a child)… It’s only been recently, to be honest, that I’ve begun to consider myself anything more than an amateur or started treating my art thusly… So I’m not sure I could be any more excited for this event—when I get to be both the artist & audience…

Before that happens, there are some folks I need to thank for making such a joyful moment in my journey possible: For their encouragement & ready advice, my friends & fellow makers have been indispensable. For patience with me & generosity with their time, I owe a debt to [[Sam Romero]] & [[Sara Savannah Jones]] that I don’t know how to repay… For all of the above (plus a thousand other ways of lifting me higher until I feel like I can fly), I owe my love [[Sean Hults]] the moon & I’m going to stop myself before this starts sounding any more like an acceptance speech, but I’m a bag of emotions…

I wish I could share the image in question (not just a description of it) with those of you who can’t make an appearance. Once the show is down, I will be sharing it with paid subscribers on Substack. In the meantime, here’s an array of photos taken while hanging the piece at the venue, as well as various other self-portraits taken in bathrooms. The last two photographs (included below) are the first two in the series that lead to the more polished piece, which was accepted into the show—so consider those a teaser—but you’ll have to come to the exhibit (running from June 24 to July 14) in Florida to see the real deal!

“Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us.” ~ Virginia Woolf { The Death of the Moth }

Blind contour drawing is an artistic exercise my mother taught me when I was young that I still frequently use. It has helped me (along with countless others) overcome the anxieties related to getting something “right” rather than simply enjoying the task. Turns out, our brain tends to get in the way of our inherent artistic abilities even more than we’re able to see. . . Unless we don’t give it the opportunity to do so. Keeping our eyes fixed on the model and resisting any glances downward is one way to switch the self-judgement center off and allow the hand to do what the hand does best. . . To flow. ✍️

Here is what happened when I spent a few minutes looking intently at a moth:

Here is what happened when I used Procreate to add a few splashes of color:

Then a few more:

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as the adage goes, I simply must ask—which do you prefer? Either way, I’ll be posting more of these drawings here. So stay tuned if you like, and may 2023 bring blessings unimaginable!