The wilderness is the oldest, truest friend a human can have, both in body and in spirit.
It teaches in silence.
It speaks without words.
It holds space for your becoming, your undoing, your return.
And it is only âdangerousâ when we forget to honor it, or refuse to learn from and respect it.
Saw an intriguing article about Waffle House this morning.
I never frequented Waffle House. Not many people around here did, apparentlyâours closed a while back. The building was recently torn down, the lot cleared to make room for yet another gas stationâŚor maybe another drive thru ATM. Iâm not sure.
I ate there a handful of times over there, never much caring or giving it a thought. But now, strangely, I miss it. I find myself wishing I had the chance.
Itâs become a metaphor for a lesson life keeps offering, and most people keep ignoring: Youâll miss it when itâs gone.
Itâs true. Youâll miss a lot of things you once took for granted. I certainly do.
Waffle House isnât a major oneâbut it is a reminder.
I miss my parents.
I miss my best friend.
I miss my spiritual teacher, and the person who gave me Alan Wattsâ The Book for Christmas two decades agoâthe gift that changed the course of my inner life.
Theyâre all dead. Dementia and Cancer.
I miss the dogs Iâve loved across decades, the ones who were more than petsâthey were companions with souls.
I miss the version of myself before my hysterectomy and menopauseâbefore synthetic HRT dulled the edge of my vitality. I wish I had chosen a more natural route, even if it had been less convenient.
I miss my child being a child.
I miss the eras of my life that were stunning in their beauty, even though I didnât see it at the timeâtoo blinded by hardship to notice the glory braided into the struggle.
I miss my opportunitiesâones I didnât recognize until theyâd passed.
I miss what it meant to be a woman before the world started reducing us to caricatures. Despite all the so-called âfeminismâ and âwomenâs rights,â it feels like women are more undervalued than ever.
I miss being able to raise chickens and grow food without running into city ordinances telling me what I can and canât do with my own land.
I miss the forests and wild places I used to roam freelyânow gated off for hunting clubs or planned graphite mines, despite the fact that nobody seems to be doing much hunting or mining.
I miss when the weather was more stable, more alive.
I miss a society that at least pretended to aim for peace.
I miss healthy masculinityânot the social performance of âmanhood,â but the actual divine masculine: rooted, mature, strong in spirit. The kind of strength both men and women are capable of carrying, choosing, embodying.
I miss the wildlife. The abundance. The bees, the butterflies, the owls, the foxes, the birds, the bats. I donât miss the mosquitoes, but I miss the balance they were once part of.
When I look back over my life, I hear the same message whispered in memory, echoing through every loss:
Youâre going to miss it when itâs gone.
I didnât mean to miss it. I didnât know I was actively, very literally missing it.
But I did.
My body. My femininity. My strength. My time. My freedom. Those are the things I miss the most where I am now.
Donât be like me.
Do better.
Let something as simpleâeven sillyâas Waffle House become a gateway. A reminder. An invitation to gratitude.
Live with more presence. Choose more wisely. Love more deeply.
Speak more freelyânot with opinion masquerading as truth, but with emotional intelligence rooted in what truly matters. Not just to be heardâbut to be known. Let your words carry truth, not ego. Let them build bridges, not burn them.
Be better, while you still can.
Itâs never too lateâŚ
There is a moment, early in a few blessed summer evenings, when the heatâthe oppressionâsighs and lets go.
Not in protest, but in quiet surrenderâthe sun lingers, the sky softens, and a hush moves in with the rain.
Steam rises like incense from the bones of the earth.
Youâve felt that coveted shift.
Itâs not loud. Not showy. Just the heaviness loosening its grip on your ribs as breath returns without warning.
This is how some battles endâ
Not with victory, but with survival.
Not with a roar, but with a breeze.
No fanfareâjust rain through fractured light, and the ache leaving your body before you even know itâs gone.
What remains?
A field of yellow flowersâbent but blooming.
Tired, but free.
And air that smells like something holyâfinally lifted.
catacosmosis // 2025
The real you is not a puppet which life pushes around; the real, deep down you is the whole universe. (Alan Watts)
The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves. (Alan Watts)
I stood in the green hush, face to face with a bloom so intricate it felt like a secret whispered by the wild. The passionflower doesnât need to perform. It simply is. Unapologetically strange. Beautifully complex. Alive.
I thought of the two Alan Watts quotes Iâve included above, and I thought of my dead loved ones. This is what I want to remember:
That being fully presentâhere, now, in the middle of whatever hurts or healsâis enough.
That passion isnât always loud.
Sometimes, it curls quietly out of the forest and dares you to look closer.
This is what death has taught me about life.
Iâm really grateful I stayed, after they were all gone.
đŞ˝đâ¨
catacosmosis // 2025
Reminder to self:
Disconnection makes you stop reflecting and start reacting. Itâs not because youâre a bad person. Itâs because youâre lost in the noise.
Disconnection from awareness breeds reactivity. Connection with awareness invites response.
When youâre connected, you pause. You listen, and ask better questions. You observe your own patterns, and stop attacking or blaming others for theirs.
When youâre connected, you become a space of calm in a world of storms rather than another disruptive, destructive wave in a sea of chaos.
When you forget how to listen inward, when you stop grounding in self-awareness, you lose your anchor.
Check yourself before you wreck yourself. Itâs not about being perfect. Itâs about being aware.
Pause, and come back to yourself.
Reconnect, and become the clarity youâve been searching for.
Remain connected, and become the clarity that helps to guide others home.
đď¸đâ¨
Hi.
Itâs the end of the world as we know itâŚand I do not, in fact, feel fine.
I just heard that song on the radio. It inspired introspection, which is more than I can say for most current popular radio. Bill, Peter, Michael and Mike may have felt fine when the world ended in 1987âbut 2025âs version? Itâs a different beast entirely.
Iâm not disassociating to the beat of their catchy chorus. No chorus, reallyâŚ
No matter what music I play, what books I lose myself in, or how many hours I spend painting, collaging, shooting and processing images, praying, meditating, or absorbing artâI canât not pay attention.
Itâs like God has made it impossible for me to look away.
No matter how many creative rabbit holes I disappear into, my soul keeps returning to the same painful truth: I still see the world clearly. And I still care.
Iâve already finished 31 books this year. Some I began a year ago and itâs taken that long to finish them, but still. Iâve read a lot this year (speaking of which, what are you reading? Hereâs my list, if youâd like some suggestionsâŚ).
Iâve listen to over 200 albums, all told (2.717 tracks, according to LastFM).
Watched 50+ documentariesâscience, history, mythology, medicine, art, folklore, theology, religion, all sorts (according to my watch history on Amazon and YouTube).
But no matter what I consume or create throughout these days and nights spent in the studio or my own den or bedroom, my heart always circles back to the chaos weâre living in.
The blame shifting. The addiction and obsession and lack of self-control. The emotional manipulationâby the media, by governments, by people you thought you could trust.
The hatred. The division. The apathy.
Even the weather feels weaponized nowâwhether by nature or man, we may never know. And most days? It feels like weâre collapsing. Not just politically or economicallyâbut spiritually.
When childrenâs deaths are celebrated, when cruelty trends, when people are told, âitâs OK to mask your real pain by pretending to be someone youâre really not,â and/or real pain is ignored in favor of performance and profitâŚhow do you call that anything but collapse?
And stillâŚI feel their pain, too.
The ones lashing out. The ones clinging to false power. Even the ones I disagree with or whoâve attacked meâand the ones in real life who wish I would âjust dieââI can feel the torment beneath their rage. Because it takes serious misdirected conditioning and trauma to become someone who cheers for suffering.
I know what it is. I know myself and so many others have been purposely called to employ it. âChargedâ with it, if you will. But I also understand now that that number is mighty small.
Itâs empathy.
Itâs spiritual discernment.
Itâs energy.
And itâs real. Thatâs the loudest truth in me. I preach it, in comments and voiceovers and prose, and I practice it through my actions. I continue to do this, even if it makes me seem âcrazyâ to a world that calls numbness normal (and to some, that makes me a âglutton for punishmentâ).
I cry with strangers on the internet more than I ever admit. Sometimes when I log on just to post art or check an email, Iâm immediately met with headlines about another shooting, another suicide, another senseless death. And still, I pray. Because Spirit wonât let me stop seeingâand wonât let me stop loving, either.
Prayer isnât useless. Many feel that it is, and I understand why. But theyâre wrong. Prayer isnât uselessâespecially not when more than one person is praying.
It creates ripples. It fuels the art, the writing, the stillness, the hope. Itâs a frequency of resistance that canât be monetized or hijacked.
And maybe, as the world is in an overwhelming energy of doubt, fear, and anger, thatâs the most powerful rebellion of all right now: to stay in the vibration of love, even when everything begs you to sink into rage or despair.
So if youâre not feeling fine eitherâbut youâre still holding on to your humanity, still radiating clarity, still praying or creating or showing up gently?
Youâre not alone.
Thereâs sacred clarity in this discomfort. Keep not-feeling-fine. It means youâre still awake. And just in case nobodyâs said it today:
I love you. Iâd like to bring goodness into your world. Iâm sending it out to you whether you like it, or me, or not. I hope youâll receive it.
đťđâ¨
xoâŚ
c.
Sometimes something hits me.
A random, inexplicable flux. That insatiable need to create. Some unseen force guiding me to conjure, to express, to birth something.
It happened again last night, but in the same instant that I felt the proverbial tap on my shoulder, a heaviness threatened to settle there. Born and bred creatives know this experience, all the way into their bones.
It comes with a dread, and creates a dangerous, self-sabotaging pre-regret. It manifests from a complete lack of vision:
No concept. No plan. No brilliant idea waiting to be realized. Certainly, no idea where to begin.
Lost but not lacking awareness, and determined to win over the weight of what really boils down to fear of failure, I asked, âwhat do we want? What is the spark?â
As expected, the silence answered with more of the same cryptic transmission: âJust âdo.â Ripples turn into waves.â
So, I rummaged.
I plundered through the old tools and the old toys. You know the onesâthe âGhosts of Projects Past,â our artistic Scroogeâs worst nightmares. The ones tucked away in dusty, overflowing âLikely Garbageâ photography folders and long forgotten apps.
The ancient, the analog, the abandoned fragments of another era.
I pulled out the remnants of what once inspired me, not because I knew what I was doing, but because whatever had stirred was creating a riot within me.
These moments are never a question of choice, so I justâŚexplored. Guessed. Played. Flowed.
Sometimes, perhaps most often, that is the best option. Even if the outcome feels unfamiliar or strange, or doesnât resemble the âusualâ desired outcome. Even if the result is wildly imperfect or impossible to explainâŚ
It is in this uncertain, instinctual process that magic lives and breathes. This is where it sizzles and crackles and arcs, like a furious current from Teslaâs coilâexcept in this case we donât need Faradayâs cage.
Creativesâartists, writers, dreamers, philosophersâneed the opposite. We need this chaotic energy to touch, and to consume, us. It is the rejection, the not allowing it to, that kills usâŚand that is always a slow, excruciating death, from the inside out.
In art and creativity, exciting results are not found in safety. Theyâre not found in perfection. Organic process is not found in planning. Everything in and about the Creative archetype is found in the act of simply showing up.
Creative inspiration doesnât ask for permission. It asks for presence. It asks that you show up and let it burn through you. The only wrong move is not moving at all.
đˇ Lumix GX7 + Panasonic Leica DG Macro-Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH Mega OIS
âď¸ Fragment + Mextures + Lightroom
entry ten â scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.
My mother always told me, in every possible circumstance a child might ever need encouragement, âDo your best, and leave the rest. Itâll all come right some day or night.â
It was a line from âBlack Beauty, by Anna Sewell.â
She was a third grade teacher, a grammar Nazi, and a mother trying her damndest to connect with me and, well, do her best.
And, as ornery and difficult a young person as I could often be, she never knew that I believed herâŚ
âŚeven when I forgot I did.
There was so much distance between us as I struggled through high school with her overbearing âsin obsessedâ guidance, and she struggled to save my soul.
Even when the days were so long, when they bled into each other, and when the nights felt like punishments I hadnât earned, as her brain and body were swallowed by Alzheimerâs.
Even when the thread broke, or maybe I cut it, when she diedâŚI honored and nursed a clean, holy wound in the shape of freedom for both of us, from past grievances, from debts yet unpaid, from fear, from tension, from aching hearts and confused minds and the evils of that horrific disease.
Still, that line stayed, like a soft breath. Like a healing balm. Like the part of her that couldnât leave, because it lived in me.
Do your best. Not more than that. Not perfection. Just presence. I tried, truly.
Leave the rest⌠The story. The tragedy. The one who couldnât stay.
It will all come rightâŚand maybe it already has.
entry nine â scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.
There is a kind of presence that doesnât announce itself.
No sound. No shimmer. No need to be noticed. Just a body doing what it does.
Clinging to a petal, breathing the moment, belonging to the quiet. Sometimes, that is the work.
Not saving, not proving. Just being.
And somehowâŚit shifts the entire forest, the entire field.
For some souls, there is a burden in being seen ânot the fear of visibility, but the ache of being misread when presence itself was the offering.
This is the shape of a soul made for stillness.
This is the purpose of a hidden heart.
entry seven â scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.
Even the smallest lifeâ
black-winged, humble, and intent on its taskâ
carries beauty enough to hush the noise of the world.
We rush past so many moments like this.
Moments where grace is not loud, not dramatic, not grand or sweeping.
Just⌠present. Quiet. Steady.
Doing the sacred work of being alive.
To sit still long enough to witness it is to remember.
Not some distant, complicated truth, but a very simple one:
The miracle is not in the event.
Itâs in the noticing.
Grace doesnât need permission to land.
It only asks that we pay attention.
đâ¨
