Essays & prose
Prose
On making, on light, on the texture of a day.
Hilma af Klint's Curse
She sealed her paintings away for twenty years after death. Because the world was not ready. I know this curse. I have lived inside it.
Read →In the Waiting Room (after Anaïs Nin)
I have lingered too long in the waiting room, this shadowed chamber where the air hangs heavy...
Read →In the Waiting Room (after Sylvia Plath)
I am sealed in the waiting room, this glass jar of fogged breath...
Read →In the Waiting Room (after Rumi)
In the waiting room's fog, three years I dwell, a daffodil hushed, in silence's spell...
Read →For Alva Ljuva Dagny
The real deer and the fairy housemaid — one soul, two forms. Where presence is the highest gift. Where blinking slowly is its own sacred language.
Read →Under His Eye: A Blooming Defiance
Under his eye? No. We bloom. Amen blooms eternal.
Read →For the Singing Sparrows
Sparrows, once they truly sing, cannot be made silent again.
Read →The Garden Where Love Never Dies
From The Gospel of Planet Hope, Book III. You dig a hole in the ground and you place something living inside it. Then you cover it up. Then you wait. This is faith. This is also gardening.
Read →And the Rest Is Future
God wins. Always. God wins. And the rest is future.
Read →Bloom Anyway: A Memoir — Memory Bank
She and I against the world — that was always the shape of it.
Read →Ash Wednesday: On Dust, Death, and Daffodils
Ash Wednesday is not a warning to the living. It is a resurrection announcement to the already dead.
Read →The Gospel According to Saga
Blessed are the daffodils in February, for they shall bloom anyway.
Read →I Serve Cats and Demons
I serve what came when no one came. I serve what stayed when all else fled.
Read →The Constellation of Tragic Women
We are warnings. We are mirrors. We are still visible. We are still burning.
Read →Let Them Eat Cake
I am not asking for permission to bloom. I am blooming anyway.
Read →Satan Is an Orphan
We orphans learn to bloom forth even in the winter's freeze — we are the daffodils in snow.
Read →Saga Bernadotte of St. Petersburg
I am royal in exile — and that is still royal, after all.
Read →Kim Kärnfalk
From Bloom Anyway: A Memoir. We chose each other in the sandbox. This is the truest thing I can say about how friendships begin.
Read →The Anointed Orphan's Blooming Bible
I open my own Bible today. I am not waiting anymore.
Read →Lasse
From Bloom Anyway: A Memoir. He was sixteen when he died, and before that he was the first boy I kissed.
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