This afternoon I harvested holy basil from my indoor garden and steeped it in a pot of simmering water. The steam rose slowly, fragrant and slightly sweet. I sat at the counter sipping it like this was something I’d always done. I hadn’t meant to grow a tea garden. The hydroponic system was supposed to be practical — super greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, fruit. Winter survival. A hedge against the slump that usually arrives when the light disappears and the days narrow. But some

I’ve been thinking about repetition lately — what it feels like to build pressure without knowing where it’s going to land. I sent out my twentieth submission this week. Another rejection came back. Polite. Brief. Efficient. At the same time, a new business I launched — something playful, something that felt like me — is still quiet. No orders yet. No proof of traction. Just the hum of effort waiting for response. This is the part no one romanticizes. The stretch where you ke

It’s late morning and I’m sitting on the balcony of our hotel, the ocean stretched out in front of me like it has nowhere else to be. The light is sharp. The air is already thick. Everything feels startlingly clear.

It feels ridiculous declaring myself a poet. I’m living in a constant state of audition and submission — half in a world of observation and self-talk, half in a delusional reality where this somehow works out. The days of having a title are over. I’ve got nothing to offer at a dinner party except, “Metronome, my three-part poem about desire exhaling between my thighs, has been rejected.” But I don’t offer that up. I just say I’m still teaching yoga and trying to get published

I am a poet This is something I always knew about myself, but infrequently said out loud. I thought someone else had to grant me the title— an editor, a book deal, a stranger with authority, some imagined jury of literary adults who would someday tap me on the shoulder and deem me legitimate. For years, I kept writing in private like it was something I needed to hide or something I hadn’t earned yet. I treated poems like secrets instead of evidence. But lately, something shif

I can’t pick up the wind, but I keep trying. It’s absurd, I know. But that’s how I move through the world— reaching for things I can’t hold, things that refuse shape, things that slip through my fingers no matter how tightly I close them. There’s a part of me that still believes if I could just catch the wind for a second— in my hands, in my chest, in a poem— I’d finally understand something I’ve been circling my whole life. Maybe that’s the problem. Or maybe that’s the whole

A reflection on how quickly we rush to certainty—and what possibilities we might be missing in the middle.