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Continue reading →: Windows on the WaterAt eighty-five, I’ve learnt that perfect writing spaces aren’t built – they accumulate, like silt in a river bend. My room has sloping floors, my father’s scarred desk, and windows on Minerva Creek. It’s exactly right.
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Continue reading →: The Company of the DeadThey call me mad for dwelling amongst the stones and bones of the dead. Yet here I have found such rapture as no living congregation ever granted me. Draw nigh, and I shall tell thee why the grave brings greater joy than any gathering of the quick.
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Continue reading →: A Clerk’s Reckoning upon St Stephen’s FeastI write this from stone and shadow, my lip split by a fat archdeacon’s ring, my future fled with my temper. They feast above whilst I reckon what justice costs a rash man. Three pennies remain, and less mercy still.
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Continue reading →: The Station Wagon with the Dented DoorMy favourite car has a dented door, 247,000 miles, and an inexplicable crayon smell. It’s not the vehicle I dreamt about as a teenager, but it’s carried me through every transformation that actually mattered.
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Continue reading →: The Theatre of FormalityI stopped dressing up for funerals three years ago, and nobody who actually mattered said a word. Turns out New Corinth taught me that showing up counts more than the costume you wear whilst doing it.
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Continue reading →: Tending the FlameChristmas Day, and the fire burns bright. I am an interpreter – a bridge between worlds – and I confess I am proud of it. But wisdom whispers another truth. Today I ask: who tends the flame, and for whom does it burn?
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Continue reading →: Figure It OutI spent twenty years telling my kids to sort their own problems, and now I can’t stop doing it to everyone else. Turns out “figure it out yourself” doesn’t always land as encouragement when you’re sixty-four and someone just needs help with the photocopier.
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Continue reading →: Fear Not‘Tis the Lord’s Day in the trenches, December’s end, sixteen seventy-one. My hands are clumsy, my cause is just, and the enemy waits beyond the smoke. Here I speak of fear, of holding fast, and of who hath shaped this stubborn heart.
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Continue reading →: The River at NightAs a kid, the Delaware riverfront at night felt like pure magic – mystery and possibility shimmering on dark water. Now I’m thirty-eight and I see contamination zones, lost jobs, and broken promises. Adulthood ruins things by handing you the truth.
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Continue reading →: The Oasis in AdventI speak from a failing spring two days before the Nativity. The earth trembles, the water shrinks, and still I wait for what will not come. Or perhaps it will. That is my curse and my consolation both.
Feign the virtue thou dost seek, till it becometh thine own
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Vox Meditantis 