Roaming around in our stories are words that tell us who we are. As the reminders of the moments and marks that have shaped us.  Of their repetitive familiar speech without an on-off switch. Of the long and messy process of our gardens. Where details become heavy...

Flowers are never just flowers but it's hard to take our minds off of the relief that they bring. Weeds are never just weeds but it's hard to take our minds off of the disbelief that they bring. In how their silly little moments and the ones we fall crying into are...

It's hard to release the artful ways that our homes express themselves. To change the dancing style of pushing through and trying to recover later. To discover how words have settled in like we are some destination for them to get to. How contagious heart burn is from...

Our humanness has never tread lightly in our gardens. Never been a singular moment. Holds days that shame bleeds through to other pages. While forgiveness sits in the uncomfortableness of not being seen. Where those two share their tales of how the weather has gotten...

It starts out as a dream for happiness. A bridge to where we will be taken far. The place restless colors are no longer the solution for what we don't know what to do with. Because the pain has been carried and now we want to spend more time with happy. And since...

Sometimes it's not the moment but how that spot feels so deeply familiar. Sometimes it's not the path but the observation of war there. Sometimes it's not the words but their implied reduction that is unnerving. Sometimes it's not the story but the uncertainty that...