Imagine standing over your dying father’s bed—his neck broken, but his soul committed to finishing his life’s work. I mean this in the loosest possible sense. But he did not: his Life’s Work, to his dying mind, was a set of articles he had started, and never finished, when he was twenty. That, and a …
Choreography of Love
I don't love my children the way I might love milk chocolate. Loving them is like loving really stinky cheese, or coffee; it's deep and primal, complex, involving so many taste buds and the interaction between them. I am sometimes repulsed and often full of craving—occasionally simultaneously—and can't imagine my life without them. I'm not …
A Little Scared
After my mother died, for a brief moment that lasted a few months, I wasn't afraid of death. I had sat with her, dying, praying through and for it like I only ever did again when trying to stave it off; I had breathed in its sacred mundaneness as she exhaled her last, seen with …
A Zigzag Line Home
Faced with the daunting task of writing a second post, I've been going over old stuff and slowly adding it to the blog. One such piece of writing is an autobiography I wrote at 27, as I was wrapping up my time at NYU. Slightly redacted and even less edited, you can find The Calculated …
All the Love in All of the Worlds
Two weeks ago, sleeping in our off-grid cabin in the South of France, I heard a seal. The night before I had absentmindedly swatted a mosquito that was feasting on my shoulder in the darkness, only to find out it was a large, fluorescent green spider. I gasped and then giggled. We shooed it out …
All of the Worlds 