Saturday night found me at home in my jammies nose-deep in a book about shame. Though the scene (herbal tea, fuzzy blanket, snoring dog) was placid, my inner landscape was…
“This music isn’t even music. It’s a poem... It’s in all of the rituals and celebrations, all the family gatherings. Music has been and always will be present.”
I couldn't figure out why seeing the image of laquerware from Patzcauro troubled me so. An insomniac bout of writing gave me my answer.
For a long time after I stopped living at the entry of a monarch butterfly sanctuary and working in monarch conservation, I stayed silent on the subject. I slowed down,…
