Essays & prose
Prose
On making, on light, on the texture of a day.
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.
Read →Morfar at the Sea
From Bloom Anyway: A Memoir. My grandfather belonged to the early hours. And sometimes, when I was staying with them, he would take me.
Read →Cyprus, Age Six
From Bloom Anyway: A Memoir. The sun in Cyprus is not like Swedish sun. Swedish sun asks permission. The Cyprus sun does not.
Read →The Planet Hope Canticle of the Heart
From the Epistles of the Weavers. If I speak with the tongues of vampires and the singing spells of witches, but have not love, I am only a shattered bell in the Ethereal Cathedral.
Read →On Silence
A short essay on the different textures of quiet — the kind that heals and the kind that hollows.
Read →The Studio
What a room accumulates over years of making — and what it gives back.
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