The Summer Sky

I wander away from the lights. I look for the darkened air, where the bats are felt but not seen. Wildfire smoke smudges the horizon. I crunch over the grass and the gravel until, finally, I am far from the cabin. I look up. Past the smoke, in the clear zenith, vega hangs emptily, spaciously, blue-and-white, on the shoulders of cygnus, the swan. There is bootes and corona borealis. Then there is hercules and ursa major, cassiopeia and aquila. These are the marks of summer.

The wind blows through my flannel shirt. Something screeches–a great-horned owl, perched in a Douglas fir, high up there, on the edge of things. I stare through the gray fields ahead of me. I can sense the openness. It’s like standing in front of the ocean. You can feel it, the movement of air and the bending of grass. You feel that you should speak to it; ask for its forgiveness and its advice. You feel that your ancestors once crept through tall grass and followed the stars like seafarers. Coyotes sing, somewhere out there. A flash of lightning illuminates half the sky. It is silver, and cold, and it makes no sound. Is this why the coyotes are singing? The wind blows faster. Clouds sail in thin tufts across the zenith. I spin around and say good-night to them all, the summer constellations, before they are gone, before I am gone, before I turn the light on again.


My Plastic Free July Journey

This month I decided to participate in Plastic Free July, a worldwide initiative to encourage the reduction of everyday plastic usage.

Aside from being made from fossil-fuels, plastic takes millennia to biodegrade, polluting our rivers and oceans–and their animal inhabitants–in the meantime. Many plastic products are designed to only be used once, which makes their long life-span even more ridiculous. Plastic also wastes our money; though its particles last basically forever, plastic is designed to lose its usefulness quickly. Plastic bags, plastic water bottles, plastic razers, and plastic food containers soon become crumpled and ripped, and can also leach toxins into your home. They’re not designed for longevity; they’re designed to keep you coming back for more.

Thankfully, there are many re-usable, durable replacements for throw-away plastic (and paper!) items:

🐳 Swap cloth towels and napkins for paper.

🐳 Use a glass or stainless steel water bottle.

🐳 Pack your lunch in glass, cloth, or stainless steel containers.

🐳 Bring your own cloth bags to the grocery store (including produce bags!).

🐳 Buy loose produce instead of the pre-chopped packaged kind (this will save you money, too). A great place for this is your local farmers market.

🐳 Get what you can from bulk bins and fill your own jars/cloth bags with nuts, seeds, beans, dried fruit, grains, etc.

🐳 Stop using a straw, or keep a re-usable one in your bag.

🐳 Likewise, keep a wooden or metal fork/spoon/knife kit in your bag for restaurants with plastic silverware.

These things were easy and money-saving, and I had already been doing most of them. That being said, there were still some areas where I struggled:

🐳 Ziploc bags while traveling:

What should I put my toiletries in? I use sweet almond oil as a body moisturizer and it always leaks, so I’d be afraid to pack it in a reusable bag in case it were to bleed through and stain my clothes. And I use a new one each time because re-using an oily Ziploc is pretty messy. Also, I still put my shoes and dirty clothes in plastic bags because, again, I don’t want my clothes to get dirty.

🐳 Shampoo, conditioner, leave-in conditioner, detergents, etc.:

I’ve yet to find a good homemade haircare recipe so I’m still buying natural, albeit plastic-entombed, hair stuff. Same goes for dish and laundry detergent, and other random beauty products like witch hazel or aloe vera.

🐳 Plastic bags for meat:

Sometimes the butcher doesn’t have the cut I want and I need to buy some pre-packaged (or frozen) chicken thighs or ground beef. Meats can be sticky and prone to leakage, so, unfortunately, I put them in horrible thin plastic produce bags.

🐳 Snacks:

Sometimes I want store-bought kale chips, or just one slice of gluten-free dairy-free cake, or some other snack wrapped in plastic, and it’s easier to buy things like this than to make them from scratch.

It’s okay to not be perfect; a snack now and again or a few Ziplock bags a year for traveling won’t do too much damage in the long run.

Plastic Free July has been a good exercise in mindfulness. I’m way more aware now of what I’m doing right and what needs improvement. I’ve decided I’m going to turn Plastic Free July into a Plastic Free Journey, and continue to reduce my plastic usage long after this month had ended.


We walk in the time before sunset. “River,” we ask. “River,” we call. The air smells of sagebrush, that fresh after-rain perfume. We don’t see the rain but the wind speaks of it– the warmth it holds, the velvet-soil fragrance, the red paintbrush and wild peas. “River,” we sing above the wind-flow and the slow-moving clouds. Look, river stones, smoothly tumbled, the same red-pink and green-blue of the horizon. The water runs fast. It is the color of dandelion pith. If we stand still enough we begin to drift. The river untangles into a placid stream, slowing, slowing, until it is the stillest place on Earth. It is us–we are moving, faster than the curve of the Earth, faster than the sky. “River,” we say, but he can’t hear us anymore.


Still Life of a Bedroom


A jar full of shells.
A beeswax candle.
A jellyfish captured in glass.
A paper lantern from Seattle;
its cranes, yellow, splashed by the sea.
Dried lavender in a vase,
the flowers still purple,
the stems both brittle and damp.
A carved wooden owl.
A Himalayan salt lamp.
A carton of pencils made to look like branches.
A coconut purse from Hawaii,
unused, made only for the shelf.
Two rows of snow-globes,
all from a different country or states,
a collection begun in elementary school.
This room,
blue and bone-yellow and worn-away pink;
shake it, and you can hear the ocean.


Concrete Fields 

Every time I return to the town where I grew up, another field has died.

I think, “They can’t build anymore houses. There isn’t any room.”

And then they find room. The grassy lot, once rich with goldenrod and dandelions. The meadow, once overrun with blackberries but open, muddy in the rain, perched over by finches with their talons between thorns. The old field, where the deer bent their heads at dusk.

They call these places unused. Vacant. Potential real estate. They build clone houses with beige plastic siding and windows that look straight into the neighbor’s bedroom. 

Why do we need more houses? Who would want to live here when the open spaces are gone?

Summer Rain



How soft the rain sounds,

like pebbles flushed through a stream,

click, and click, then all at once, like the inside of a wave as it breaks,

polyphony, the voices and their colors.

the shifting powders of soil, the ants and pill bugs drowned in soup-like puddles,

the robins warmly puffed up, their eyes crossed and glinted as they stare east,

at the corner above the fence

where the sun will be.



Take A Stone From The Desert


Take a stone from the desert. Carry it home with you; keep it safe in the inner pouch of your backpack. Unwrap it carefully. Feel how it has cooled. Turn it over in your hands. Feel the softness of your fingers, exfoliated by wind and stone, and how the rock, too, is smoother than you remember. Flip the lights on so you can see, without a doubt, how the colors have changed. What was once red is now brown-maroon. What was once tea-green is now gray. This is not the same rock you pulled from that ledge of sandstone, but a memory of it.


We go to the desert to renew ourselves. This is a land of sky and distance, incredibly ancient but wearing away before our eyes. We are tangled in the elements. Night rushes in. Sweat turns to chills. When the sun rises you are bundled in fleece, but, just as your hands thaw, the day suddenly blooms into warmth, and the sweat returns.


Look, there, the ravens circle wordlessly. By the river, Canadian geese honk their morning songs. Wild turkeys roam the sagebrush, laughing. Any sound here is startling and abrupt. When the birds are not calling, it is completely silent. If you stand for a moment, and hold your breath, you hear the buzzing of stillness, the buzzing, perhaps, of time, that very strange quiet that we do not hear in the city.


We often think of the desert as a place for escape. All wilderness is seen this way; as a refuge from the evils of society. Perhaps we need not to escape those evils, but to face them. Perhaps the desert should be the place we go to breathe, to listen; to lay with our backs curved against sandstone, to watch the stars turn, and wander carefully through the bleached moonlit landscape, its shapes contorted, its shadows moving like clouds. It is in these moments that the best thoughts form. There is no better place to see the relationship between us and time. Our smallness is evident, here, but it is a magnificent smallness. How beautiful it is to see that there is more than us, more than our mistakes and our self-imposed distance from the non-human world. And once we have seen this, we can return to the city and apply what we have learned.


We need to see ourselves in the context of the larger world in order to understand who we are and how we want things to change. This is why, in the dry desert air, things start to make more sense. Out here, we learn to rejoice in the things we have no control over. We learn to love harsh extremes and to find solace in our connection to vastness.  We form new ideas in the openness and carry them with us, like desert stones, changed by landscape. Each stone is a different color when we arrive to our city homes, inseparable from its surroundings. We hold the rocks themselves and the memory of their brightness, and both help us understand what needs to be done.

The Piano – A Short Story


I have been around fur-ones all my life. They do not have fur on the tips of their fingers, but it is everywhere else. On some it is pale, touched but mostly unseen, and on others—the nose-ones mostly—it is an encapsulating seed, the vessel through which they experience the world. As you can see I am one of the wood-ones. I do not experience the world through skin or fur, but through sound.

Many years ago, when the fur-ones brought me into this world, I thought I was one of them. I tried so very hard to see, and to feel. I tried to taste the air. I heard the fur-ones speak, their voices creaking, the chords in their throats expanding, the buttons on their coats snapping up, the keys turning, ripping like ice through the metal interior of the lock. I tried to call out to them, but I could not even do that, not of my own will. I could hear, and that was all I could do for myself.

The first fur-one to play me was a boy-one. He had never been inside the metal walls before, but I’d heard his breathing sometimes, on the outside, by the hollow tin where the fur-ones threw things. His fingers sounded like stubs of snow, approaching, approaching. The idea of music startled me. He played a very simple piece. For the first time I felt, rather than heard, and it was a glorious warmth, a sun-glow, a something I would call joy. I saw this something, too; the color yellow, or maybe it was gold. I did not have a word for it then. I remember it as something unworldly. Something ancient; a bridge through time. By the time the boy-one left, I knew why I had been created.
I was happy to leave my birthplace. A family of fur-ones brought me to a sunny corner, and they pushed another wood-one in front of me, a four-legged thing with a cotton-heart, but he could not speak. We listened to each other, how we creaked when the air shifted, deep in the quietest moments before the fur-ones rose.

Some days we could hear the whistles of the feathered-ones, beyond the net of glass, but most often we heard the scurrying of the fur-ones. The more I listened to them, the better I understood their ways. Two large fur-ones stepped slowly, one with the swish of her fabric bell, the other with the swoosh of his leg-tubes. A nose-one ticked wildly in a quadruple rhythm, one-two-three-four, scat-scat-scat-scat. Similar to these staccato footsteps were those of the girl-one, scat-scat, a duple rhythm.

“Isn’t it about time for your practice, darling?” the woman-one said.
“I already did.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I played when you were outside.”
“Beatrice, you need to practice twenty minutes per day. Remember what Mrs. Patterson said.”
“But Mommy, I don’t feel like it.”
“Come on. Let’s have a concert. Daddy and I will be your audience. Right, Phillip?”


Creaking, as the fur-ones sat. The woman-one clapped her hands, a sound like feather-one beaks on tree-one husks. “And now, here to play Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart for you on this fine afternoon, may I present, the fabulous and talented—Beatrice!”
The man-one clapped as well. The nose-one nudged up close to me, and rounded himself into a circle by my pedals.
The girl-one began to play.




Some days I like piano. Mommy says all ladies should learn an instrument. She learned the violin when she was young, but she hasn’t played it in years. I’ve never heard her play. Sometimes I think she’s making it up.

But I like to play piano sometimes, like on rainy days, on afternoons when it’s so dark we turn the lights on early. Whiskey sits at my feet. He breathes heavily, huffy nose-breathes, and I know he’s fallen asleep. It’s easy to play on days like that. But not when it’s sunny. I want to go outside, or I want to teach Whiskey how to play hide-and-go-seek.
I stop playing. Whiskey lifts his nose.

“Honey, you need to play a little longer,” says Mommy.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Daddy says.
I stand. Whiskey stands too.
“I don’t want to.”
Why do they care if I practice or not? I want to be free like Whiskey. All day all night free to nap or play as I choose. I wish I was a little doggy. All covered in soft fur, with floppy ears and a snout with whiskers.
I am daring. I clench my fists. “You can’t make me!”
“That’s earned you a time-out.” Mommy points to the hallway. Daddy’s eyebrows curve. That is a good way to tell that he’s mad. I cross my arms but my daringness is gone.
There is a corner in the hallway, the time-out corner, where I’m supposed to stand when I’m in trouble. I stomp my feet against the wood floors. Like drums. See, I’m playing an instrument now. See, Mommy and Daddy.

“Twenty minutes,” says Mommy. “Think about how you can be more respectful toward your parents.”

I lean my forehead against the green-flowered wallpaper. I start to cry. Mommy and Daddy are mad at me. I’ve been bad. I know it. Why do I always do this? I stomp my feet again. Stomp stomp. Stomp stomp. All with my forehead glued to the wall.

Last time I got in trouble I refused to eat the liver and onions we had for dinner. I don’t like liver. It tastes like metal, like you’re licking a pure metal spoon, and it’s always really dry. I told Mommy I wouldn’t eat it. Never. I would never eat it again. I would rather have a grumbly tummy all night than eat liver. But Mommy didn’t like me talking back to her like that. She didn’t like my tone. I thought my tone was very grown-up. That’s how Mommy talks half the time. Daddy doesn’t mind as much, but he goes along with what Mommy says. I think if it was just me and Daddy here I could get away with almost anything.

But I have been bad. I shouldn’t be mean like that. I love my Mommy and Daddy. And the poor piano. I don’t hate the piano either. I love the whole house.

“I’m sorry,” I yell into the wall.


The girl-one does not like music. She is eager to run instead. Perhaps she is too young. Perhaps she is more a nose-one than a girl-one.
One night the man-one played something lovely. The girl-one had already gone to bed, but the woman-one sprung out from behind the corner, and she said, “Phillip, you never told me that you play.”

He pulled his fingers away. “I don’t. Just tinkering around, love.”
“Sounded like more than just tinkering around to me.”
The man-one laughed. It was not a real laugh, but a pressure of air through his nose.
“Well don’t stop. Keep playing.”
“I’m a bit tired,” he said, and he closed my cover.

The next time he played, the house was empty, the woman-one and girl-one ridden away in a wheeled basket pulled by hoof-ones. The man-one played the same piece again. I did not recognize it, but I could tell it was something old, something that he was trying to remember, because he paused at certain passages and hummed along with the notes until he found his way. He mastered it just before the other fur-ones returned. Whatever it was, it was exuberant.



Daddy comes out and cups my chin. “Don’t you like the piano, dearest?”
“I like it sometimes.” I sniffle. “When I feel like it.”
“It’s something that requires absolute dedication. Day in, day out.”
“Daddy, did you ever play an instrument?”
“I used to. When I was a little boy, I played the piano just like you.”
I jump. “You did? You did? What happened?”
“I loved it so much I wanted to become a pianist.”
“A pianist?”
“A professional piano player. But your grandfather told me that that wasn’t a good job, and so I stopped.”
“Daddy, do you still remember how to play? Oh, play something for me, please!”
A short silence, and then the man-one sat down. “This is a song I made up, long ago.” The girl-one curled up on the sofa, and she stroked the nose-one’s ears. The woman-one returned to the room.

All the fur-ones breathed softly. Their chests rose and fell together, legato. The music was like a rush of moving air, like the girl-one and the nose-one as they played together beyond the net of glass, soft, and frantic, and young. Wind in head-fur. Wind in body-fur.
The girl-one asked: “Daddy, will you teach me?”

The nose-one curled up at my pedals. Together, the fur-ones played.




At the Mall – A Short Story


Sharp elbows. Sharp like shark fins, serrated like old kitchen knives with wooden handles. A smell like skunk and burnt canola oil, something stuffed away and long hidden from sunlight. There is no overhead music but—velcro, children’s shoes, spilled fountain drinks left sticky on the tiles. Glass boxes filled with plastic cloth, on plastic people whose faces look like stones, and bags and shoes and plastic jewelry, and the small, plastic eggs where children receive machine candy.


A glass elevator slides up, smooth as moving water. Two elderly women look out, their arms bulged upon shoulder bags. There is a long line. One of the escalators is broken and wrapped off with shining yellow tape that is almost see-through. Caution. No one thinks to use them as stairs. That is not their purpose.


Inside one glass box are lotions on white cubes. Everything is clean and white and overly perfumed. The women wear aprons. They hold up plastic bottles, move slowly and stand in one place like perched birds. They exist in other boxes too, tinted, plumed, manicured; extinct creatures who have risen again, who scratch and scathe, immortal.


The bathrooms are safe except for the screaming. Plastic-children blunder and peer under stalls, their hands and knees impressed upon stains that look like long insect trails, which the children sniff and then follow. They end up in another glass box. They are everywhere, on every corner; hard to digest meals in glass tummies, scarves and hats, movies and wristwatches. Holed-up sweaters that are not warm, stump-shoes that are unwalkable.


At the very highest point are two plastic bubbles, side by side, plastered to the ceiling like a sky mural. Sunlight spits down in a funneled tube like a hurricane, meeting one spot on the tile where it dries up. Two teenage boys walk over it. The sunlight remains.

Backs on Grass – A Short Story


Where did we come from? I don’t mean life. That’s been documented already; the pale curtain of lightning; the dense seas—Venusian, black like boiled leather; the first spark that tethered us all to water. Roger Gray was the first one to record it on video. He won the Nobel Prize for it about a decade ago. He guessed the right year, the right hour, the right minute, the right second, out of all those billions and trillions of moments. He guessed the right few nanometers out of those bare starscape-plains of water, and he witnessed the genesis of all things. He was lucky. He was called upon by God. This is what it’s for, we all thought when we saw the microorganisms writhe into being. This is what time travel is for.

Gray now lives in a mansion in Italy, and goes back to Rome and to Greece to do what he calls “research”. We all know that the reason he really goes is because the ancients think he’s a god. I mean, the engravings of Dionysus and Bacchus look suspiciously like him. That doesn’t just happen.

But there is more to know. More to show people. We’ve seen the first life, but what about the first us? The first hominid who became truly human?
“You’re bringing me back something, right?” my sister asks.
“Something? Yes. I’ll bring you back a jar full of pond water.”
“Ew!” she laughs. Her eyes pull wide as her mouth, wider still; straight lines.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you something.”
“Something good?”
“Something good.”

I hug her and she inhales deeply, which means she’s going to cry. She knows I’ll only be gone one day. It’s always one day. We can’t be gone more than twelve hours or we’ll run out of battery. That’s it, that’s all you get; it’s too expensive to carry a spare. She knows that, but she cries anyway.

I say goodbye to my parents, to my younger brother, and to the family cat, Lyra. I always leave them with these big goodbyes because you never know what will happen. They’re used to the uncertainty, I think; they’re used to it more than I am. They brag about my job to their friends all the time. Our daughter is an archaeologist, they say. She’s going to the Pleistocene next week.

It’s not any more dangerous, really, than flying on a plane. Before every trip you must prepare yourself for the small possibility of a life where you become an old woman at age forty, a life where you step barefoot on twigs and stink like mud for the rest of your days.

When I step out of the time machine, the sun feels dim, polluted. I look up at the haze. At first I think there might have been a small volcanic eruption a few weeks past, but then the rain shivers down, a muted, felted click against leaves. Rain clouds, then. I live in the desert. It hasn’t rained in years. It hasn’t rained on a trip in years, either. This is a sign, I think. A sign from the God or Goddess of this era that I’ve come to the right place.

The pond is big enough not to be stagnant, but small enough not to be a lake. The trees feel heavy, the lianas hanging down like tangled hair. I clutch my extra-zoom camera and sit near the water. My pants soak through immediately with mud. I feel completely naked, like I am one of these trees, and a sense of panic shivers through me. I have done this so many times, but there’s something different now. The grasses wheeze with insects and rain. All the birds sound far away, as though they’re chanting at me from mountaintops.

“Hello?” I say, just to hear my own voice. The birds pause, and then they sing louder than ever, faster, quicker, the staccato of a heartbeat.

I think about the present I’ll bring my little sister. A rock? A flower? What would she do with such things? Nothing here will interest her. The picture will have to be enough.

Any moment now, I think. Any moment I will see the first human amongst her tribe of ape people. She will be different from them—slender, taller, less hairy. Her clever, mutated genes will pass on through millennia, shifting and growing, but recognizable. The original mother. The original Goddess. How will I know if she’s the first? I will know, I think. Somehow, I’ll just know.

The sun is veiled, doused by cotton balls, but I can tell that it’s almost evening. Maybe this moment was not the moment. Something crunches behind me, and I stoop silently behind what is either a small tree or a tall bush. A pack of hominids squat and cup their hands and bring water to their mouths. The sun is setting quicker than I thought, but there’s still time to watch. None of them stands out. They look like classic Homo heidelbergensis; flat foreheads, eyes positioned within brow bone caves. They look human but they also look disfigured, lumpy. In this lighting, completely naked, they appear silhouetted; remnants, untouchable; they are ancientness embodied. There are many pictures of them at home, but I take a few anyway. I am breathlessly quiet. Their hearing is better than ours. I go on taking pictures, shifting my weight, ready to run back to the machine.

The sun is almost gone. I’m halfway to the machine when I glance over my shoulder. There is a woman I hadn’t noticed. Her back is turned, but even from behind, I can tell—she is slender, with long, straight hair. She is different. This is it; my picture, my Nobel Prize, my sister’s gift. I run toward them. “Hey!” I yell to get her attention. She is lumpy. Her teeth stick out. She is not me.

I sprint to the machine but it’s too late. The battery is dead. They walk toward me, hunched. I understand their faces. In their eyes I see my own pupils. I see all the millions of moments, the learning of unthinkable languages, the cold fireside nights, our backs on grass; I see my own self—the goddess eternal, the very first strand of humanity, the first and the last, a birth and death in one swift motion.