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A tribute-song to two supernovas—Joanna Macy and Andrea Gibson—who in their passing away are spreading life-building gifts.
A story-song. A metaphor.
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The rhythm of Jupiter doesn’t quite fit with the birdsong at home.
Peeling potatoes and rambling might be the path to enlightenment.
Frogs are always singing to someone—maybe to you.
My friend Sean Shea and I sat down for a ‘business meeting.’
A mother, a deathbed, and the music of the spheres.
Somewhere between devotion and dance floors, between discipline and dissolution, we stumble forward, hands full of stories, wondering whether the bell is tolling for us yet.
Sean guides and encourages song writers. Maybe you? https://www.songsforpositivechange.com/
Keep an ear our for our upcoming song-story workshop.
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Human skin against goat skin. Who leads, who follows?
Rhythm is a language, but who speaks it best—the swirling hand or the desert wind?
My friend Rasha taught me Egyptian rhythms beneath the stars.
We sync, I lose the thread, we laugh. But the stars keep time, and the drums keep calling us back.
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Bats cut the badlands sky.
A traditional man softens. Who gets to cry? Who gets to weave?
Another man steps into the ocean and forgets himself. He comes back with nothing.
But what’s that he’s offering to the being who sent him in?
The waters are rising. Step in.
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A king devoured by his own hunger.
Skin dissolving into fur, into feathers, into scales.
The tunnel calls, but will you step through?
The sign above the entrance reads: Weird. Is that just another way of seeing?
Breathe deep. Submerge.
Listen. The water is speaking.
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Looms clatter, voices hum, a temple echoes with recitations.Gods wander through the Himalayan foothills.
Are we moving?
Sliding, flying, riding: through sound, space, a weave of voices.
Let your headphones slide other worlds into your noggin.
Listen close. The loom is weaving. The temple is calling.
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Every tool is a spell, every technology a superpower.
Clamshell knives slash AI cloaks.
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Leaving monkhood was easy. I just got in a cab and changed out of my robes.
But what about the aftershocks?
The lost rhythms, the misfit loves, the phantom schedules?
My friend Sean Shea and I sat down for a ‘business meeting.’
I do love our business meetings.
Or rather, our deep and personal conversations.
Sean also reflected on helping his father pass through the portal of death.
Somewhere between the ashram and the grocery store, between devotion and despair, we roamed.
Bring some potatoes, onions, and your feelings about death. Let’s share a meal together.
Sean guides and encourages song writers. Maybe you? https://www.songsforpositivechange.com/
Keep an ear our for our upcoming song-story workshop.
Free Story & Media Consultation
Comment and Subscribe here
What happens when God’s wife just wants some peace and quiet?
Creation.
If worldviews are bubbles, what happens when they pop?
Listen in. Float through the bubbles. Find the third spiral.
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Voices resound on stone, and trumpet through abandoned pipes.
A hum, a howl, a half-remembered hymn—
Sticks whack PVC pipes, the sound swallowed and reshaped.
Somewhere, a songbird forgets its own tune.
Somewhere, a coyote grins in the dark.
A card is flipped, a role is claimed.
Sing low enough, and the walls might sing back.
Step inside. You might just hear your own voice waiting.
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