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The zendo at Tassajara burned down last month. I spent parts of four years at America’s first Zen monastery — waking before dawn, scrubbing tiles, ringing the bell that called a hundred people to work. New essay about what the place gave
Every few years I end up somewhere with no internet, no plan, and nothing to make. A fishing boat. A dune shack on Cape Cod. A garden on the Mendocino coast. I used to think these were the lost years. New substack essay about what was actually happen
In 2012 I sold everything and moved onto a 1926 fishing boat in San Francisco Bay. What I found wasn’t solitude — it was the most unlikely community I’ve ever known. Sixteen years later I find myself in another low tide, looking bac
I’ve been sharing poems, essays, and artwork through substack these days. It’s been a really nice resource to stop myself from doom scrolling and provide more thoughtful content and consume even better content. I’ve been writing mo
Full Moon photo dump… things I’m up to, things I’ve done. I’m working on some new poetry and new ways of going about life. Here’s one: Today I choose kindness Even though I wanna choose violence. I helped baby swallo
After a 5 year journey, I got ordained a lay Zen Buddhist monk last month. A few friends of mine have been asking what’s that mean?? What did I have to do? Well, it’s means a lot of things. I took a public vow to uphold shared values in
What have I gotten myself into this fall? 1. Cooking at Tassajara photo by @allievm 2. Sewing a rakasu/getting ready to take the Zen Buddhist vows 3. Teaching a protest poster workshop at @nblaorg 4. Co leading a weeklong meditation workshop at So
Fire Basin Sutra - This is my send off to my long time friend Tom Ingalls, which makes sense, since it was a long time project with amazing people. A culmination of our life work to this point. It felt good to get back into the head space of design a
Things I miss (Vol 1). “Radical friendliness” is what Barton Stone, lifelong activist, land wizard, and zen master, suggested I practice at a recent student-teacher meeting after I told him about my on going struggle with impatience. In
Why did I leave? I decided not to play the game anymore. I was a pawn in a tiny sect of the art world. Marketing chum to make big companies look like they cared, but when I spoke my mind and it didn’t fit their agenda, I was dropped from the vi
Our dance floor is, Stretched over taught skin. A canvas of memory and muscle. Framed in bone. On this, we paint our ways north. We are Homecoming without land. Our pilgrimage traces ancestor paths. Nothing to discover, everything to realize. Tirel
Mr. Tom Ingalls. Backwards Man, Bamboo Knox… my good friend, spiritual friend, zen friend, cooking friend.. You called me your best friend on your deathbed. I thanked you for all that you taught me, you thanked me for coming. We sat zazen t
So this was 38~ the past year on this planet. So many things have happened in my sphere and to all of yours. I can not bow enough to everyone that has taught me valuable lessons, both difficult and fulfilling. So I hope my gratitude is felt in thos
Hanging this up one final time on Friday and handing the keys to the studio new owner. Over the past 10 years I’ve been building and running @theaestheticunion Now it’s time for me to focus on other projects, including the ongoing work o
Polish me with your tender tendrils. I am ivy tangled guarded alabaster, covered by my secret sands of skin and bone. Dusts of the worlds. Polish me until I shine like metal.
The weight whole of the sea rests in each step as I stroll in the ultimate. Here I am, deep in the bluest thicket. Under tempest green skies. A moon, cradling mirrored memories that rest in the ladles pulled your well.
For the birds and coyotes, for my sisters and brothers: Feed my limbs, these giving arms. That flow into another body of earth, or dive into your body of water. Fingers of fire, a touch of your torch, extinguish our self-made blindness. photo b
Rain Prayer These rolling hills are chants, golden on our tongue. When summer came we stood in the amber sun, drinking syrup thick air. Paused in time, praying for heavy clouds to break open, like the yolk on my plate. Soaking this land of dust an
Only children talk to God, and she found on the mountain tops. Exposed to all that is feral, like you and the mongoose. Air is scarce in the hollows of her fiery throat. Stones tremble and trees fall with her voice races o’er high lakes.