So what will you find here? Mainly personal essay, flash poetry, and some hybrid works.
My work on Medium is often about memory, dreams, deja vu, synchronicity, love & longing, personal development & healing childhood trauma, writing as craft, and music. A writing bio may be found here. I am an amateur photographer. Often, I use my own photos as feature images.
Some essays on memory, dreams, psychic phenomena, & healing
The Best Thing About My First Lucid Dream Was the Delight
You May Dream the Future, But the Only Way to Know Is to Remember Your Dreams
The magic — and the danger — of looking for patterns in the world
Last night, while searching “the significance of 38,” I landed on a Yahoo! Answers page. It was not the first time I’ve sought comfort in strangers’ answers to other strangers’ questions.
In fact, the most useful information I’ve obtained since the internet was usefully searchable has been from message boards, from people with questions professionals couldn’t answer or from people with questions for which there are no designated professionals. (This practice is so common now that, as I write this, there are 837 million search results for “My medical degree is from Google University.”)
The question I had last night…
A micro poem about home
(after Painted from Memory after Cherry Hill after Hannaton)
This is how you find your way home:
- Get curious.
- Drop assumptions.
- Explore her hidden trails. Notice your surprise she has them and that they are lush. Sometimes, in winter, they are stark. This is beauty, too.
- Honor her for what she offers rather than what she lacks. Notice your surprise at how easy this is, especially when you listen west to the city and smell east to the shore.
- Tell everyone you know you were wrong about her, or at least not as right as you were once certain you…
Tips for when to tell your dreams to someone, and when not
The other day I was in a lively conversation with a close friend of mine about her growing business. She recalled a time when a coach she was working with shared with her in a one-on-one a dream he had. She was the subject of the dream.
“I see you standing inside a metal doorway. You’re stuck.”
My stomach turned a little as I listened to my friend tell the story. On the one hand, I could feel myself internally agreeing with the advice the coach ended up giving my friend. …
Dreams of Leaving Things Behind and Finding Them
For years I’ve been trying to find a reliable site for dream interpretation or symbolism. This is one. I can’t even think of another one.
What exists, however, is a lot of SEO-focused or AI-generated dream content. While some of it may be based on, let’s say, Freudian dream analysis or Jungian archetypes — something legit — it’s still never satisfying for offering perspective into anything but my most basic dream questions. You know: What does yellow in a dream represent? Or…why am I dreaming about giraffes?
I don’t have a degree or certification in dream analysis. But I’ve been…
Plus, the realization that life may be simpler than we believe it to be
For about a decade, I’ve been intentionally working on my dream life. Which is to say that for the last ten years I’ve given my attention to my dreams the way I would a project, a startup venture, or a potential future field I may one day be an expert in.
Through this, I’ve come to believe what many mystics, philosophers, and indigenous cultures have claimed in one way or another: that life itself is but a dream.
A recent lucid dream — one in which the dreamer becomes aware inside the dream she is dreaming — offered me a…
A poem
For Joni for Laura for song
In the same way there is no such thing as a tendaberry
There may not be a song called Invitation
It may never have existed despite the lyrics I wrote
in my diary to memorialize them and You.
I had the notion then you were a forgettable thing.
Like a playground, I hid my eyes from every summer
walking the boards in Wildwood, NJ thinking a
blindfold could keep out the vision of a boy who
ate too much spun around too much too much too much so much he was sick every summer…
Squared to this rug
(and all she swept under it)
conjunct to what she carried
on mother-wounded shoulders
she stood dripping
just outside the shower
stalling
a woman
her sagging skin
both younger and older
than any reflection.
Hers is the voice of
eternal return singing
of eternal return
singing
of lists of promises
of twenty years too early
or late for forever
depending on the call
and response
to the ether from the ether
neither admitting
affection nor affliction
not even hunger.
Aren’t you hungry yet?
Yours is the voice of my name in the dark still awake in…
