First Fruits, and Faith After Fire (a D’var Torah for Shabbat at Burning Man)

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Delivered for Milk and Honey Shabbat at Burning Man


This week’s Torah portion is called Ki Tavo, from the book of Deuteronomy. It takes place after Jewish farmers have settled in the land of Israel and begun a yearly cycle of growth and harvest. Ki Tavo introduces the concept of tithing (whereby God commands the Jews to give away 10% of their harvest to those in need) along with a ritual of offering bikkurim, or “first fruits.” In giving away the first fruits of their harvest, the Jews are instructed to go to the temple and express gratitude to God for bringing them to the land of Milk & Honey.

The first fruits of the harvest. In other words, the Jews have been toiling in the hot, hot desert for months, and when they finally pull something juicy and delicious from the ground, instead of eating it, they’re supposed to put it in a basket and give it away? Sounds a little meshugga, no?

As I see it, tithing and offering bikurim are radical declarations of faith. Relinquishing the first good thing that comes our way after a period of scarcity means trusting that the world is essentially good. It’s a gesture that suggests that there is enough: more fruit is coming. That gifting will not leave us deprived and starving, but rather will come back to us tenfold…. Is this ringing a bell?

At Burning Man, we show up each year believing that despite the elements, we will not only survive, we will thrive. That no matter how much dust we swallow or how fucked our burn gets, the Playa will provide and we will come out alive—maybe even happier, truer versions of ourselves. As such, we give away gifts of all shapes and sizes, knowing our well-being in this dusty desert is ensured by the cyclical flow of abundance that we fuel with our generosity. By gifting, we are staking our claim that we too, deserve to receive.

Is it not an amazing thing to witness what’s created when an entire tribe chooses to believe our needs will be met, our boundaries respected, and our dreams fulfilled? Rather than asking ourselves “How do I get mine and protect my own?” we begin to ask ourselves a new question: “How can I help? What can I give away? How can I make someone else’s dream an immediate reality?”

This shift in mindset has a ripple effect. Not only do we feel more joyful, but we also create joy in others. When we believe that the next person we meet is going to be kind to us, we begin to build a world based not on greed and deprivation, but on love and generosity.

So, we see that it’s good to give away first fruits. But that’s not to say it’s always easy. Here on Playa, we burn a temple filled with our most sacred fruits: stories, trinkets, images of loved ones who’ve passed on. When the flames rise up to consume whatever we’ve built and come to rely on as a given, we’re faced with primal fear of nothingness… which can be scary. The question remains: will something of worth return to fill the void?

I want to leave us with this to chew on: nothing is forever. Whether we choose to give away our first fruits with generosity and joy or resistance and struggle, is the only part that’s really up to us. As we watch the flames consume our beloved tokens and memories, we must choose to have faith that something rich will grow back from the ashes, and the wisdom to recognize that much of it was facade (and not serving us) anyway…

In closing, I would like to wish us all an incendiary burn, the courage to be generous—even in hard times, and a very, very fruitful Shabbat Shalom.

Thank you.




Trip to the Motherland: Small Failures, Small Victories

0512181202bDAY ONE

After we arrived in Seoul, Mom and I tried to order dinner last night at a small restaurant in Insedong: the kind where some people (the locals) sit on the floor. We took a seat at a table around 5pm, exhausted and ready for bed, but knowing we should have dinner first. The plan was to have soup: spicy chi-gae with tofu for Mom, seaweed soup with mandu (dumplings for me). But we never got that far. Our waiter didn’t speak English, and rather than keeping it simple, we asked a bunch of questions, pointed at various things on the menu, and made the universal motion for “NO!” to indicate we didn’t want caffeine when discussing tea, at which point he walked away. We thought we had ordered. Twenty minutes and two bathroom trips with failed attempts to flush the complicated Korean toilet (so may buttons!) later, we still didn’t have our soup. We were both getting tired, but neither of us wanted to be the awkward/pushy/American one to ask whether or not our food was coming. Eventually, I caved, feeling bad for Mom after I scolded her for asking too many questions and because when she tried to ask him, he just threw his arms up in an X, as in, “I don’t speak English.”

“Next time we should just point!” I said, then called the man over. “Soup?” I asked, feeling dumb and desperate. “We want soup?” Mom chirped in with “We want the chi-gae and the man-du.” The man’s face lit up with understanding. Oh. He went over and punched our order in to the computer. Dammit. Twenty minutes later, we got our soup (which was totally delicious) and paid the bill (Mom used her minimal Korean—Yogiwa!”) and left feeling shamed.


We went to bed at 8pm in our comfy shared hanok bed and woke up around 4am. “Are you up?” I heard Mom whisper, and I said “Yes.” I imagined getting up early to go watch sunrise but fell back asleep and woke again at 6:30. I heard Mom telling Lee, “Peko-Payo!” (I’m hungry!) We had breakfast with Lee, our Airbnb host, of toast, jam, coffee, kimbap, and fried egg. Mom and Lee compared notes on the linguistics of some bamboo looking thing in the kimbap, and I asked questions about Kyung-Ju, Halmeoni’s province.

Then we set out to walk around. I got to lead first and walked us through Insedong and toward the mountain. We passed a bunch of closed stores and a government building/temple that we thought Hadabajji might have worked at because the sign said that high level government advisors worked there back in the day, and then toward a park. On the way we stopped at a Buddhist temple that smelled of relaxing incense and meditated there for a few minutes, but Mom figured out they were having a funeral so we left so as not to be in the way. There was a pretty white cat that Melissa would have loved. Mom took a picture.


We didn’t know how to say “Park” in Korean which is funny because Park is basically every other Korean person’s last name, but eventually we kept following the green and walking uphill and eventually we found Sam-Cheong park and took a really beautiful walk in trees. It felt like a forest and was very steep. All we had for water was the tiny bottle Mom took from the airplane, and while I was excited to be hiking in nature, I was also worried about getting dehydrated as it was getting warm and the walk was steep. But we saw cute little pinecones and chipmunks and heard birds chirping and lots of Korean people were out so we carried forward. It said that we were heading toward Bukhansan mountain but when we asked a family in our broken Korean, Bukhansan peak kakawayo? (Is Bukhansan peak very far?) They answered “yes,” and when we modeled walking there with our fingers they laughed and the girl said “It’s impossible.” We walked up many flights of stairs until we discovered a sign for “Lookout point” 400m and decided to make that our end point. It took us past the Seoul city wall to a beautiful lookout that gave me vertigo, even though it wasn’t a steep drop-off or anything. You could sort of see the whole city except it was so foggy. One of those funny travel things: you never picture the fog, or the bad weather.


We rested up there, took some photos, and then walked down in search of cold drinks. Mom wanted me to pick the cafe but there were so many in the area below the park that I couldn’t choose one, yet I knew she was thirsty. So was I. We ended up at some health tea cafe with a sliding door that would murder you if you didn’t get through quick enough. We took forever ordering, again asking a million questions and the girl at the counter using Google Translate to help us, and eventually settled on a mango yogurt smoothie thing and a red-bean mochi. We cancelled some crazy five grain snow ice thing because we eventually figured it out it was $10. Mom went to the bathroom trying to use a wrong code, with some crazy slide-up panel lock, and was too stubborn to re-check the code until I did it for her and then told her. She said she understood how Clara feels, or any little kid, when they can’t do something simple. I laughed and judged her but later after we ate our scrumptious mochi and yogurt parfait thing (“tastes like yogurt and whipped cream mixed together!’ Mom said), I didn’t lock the door right and a Korean girl walked in on me peeing and instagramming. So there you go.


We left to go to Mom’s choice: a traditional Korean music performance, toward Cheongdukdonk palace (no idea if that’s right, the names here are so long and sortof sound the same as bad as that sounds… we can’t remember a word long enough to look it up on google maps). We walked through this cute fashion district and I bought a long-ish beige linen spring coat: wide sleeve, very trendy. Forty ish bucks, and Mom kept saying it made me look liek a model except for my dork sandals, but they didn’t have the cute black foam high heels big enough for my feet. “40 is our largest size!” AKA, “Get out of here, big-ass American girl!” Oh well. Almost bought a bucket hat too, feeling like getting the whole ensemble, but we needed to get to the show.


We passed a million yummy looking restaurants that smelled like heaven with dumplings and rice bowls and fried things but Mom was laughing since we’d just eaten the yogurt and I didn’t wanna make us late for the show. We got some directions from “Information” helpers wearing red outfits, and saw so many people wearing the traditional Hanbok dresses. Including entire schools of children. We made it to the show, which was in a little courtyard cafe across from the palace. It was so beautiful! It was a trio of young men, and the main guy played all different drums and sang his heart out. He sounded wild, like a fierce mountain man. His voice was wavery, but piercing and ancient. It seemed to come straight from his soul—crying and screeching. I loved it. His accompaniments played the hurdy-gurdy and the flute. They did some Irish songs and had the audience clap along. We were the only Americans in the mix, or so it seemed.


When we left to go get lunch, things went a little downhill because I was hungry and cranky, and needed to pee, but couldn’t remember where any of the appetizing restaurants were. Mom claimed she wasn’t hungry, and dragged her feet, thinking the restaurants were in a different direction than the ones I remembered. Either way, we got lost and walked all over retracing our steps but only coffee shops and expensive modern restaurants. All I wanted was kalbi but we got desperate and tired and ended up in this depressing udnergorund place that didn’t even smell like food. The bulgogi was grey, and they didn’t have kalbi, just kalbi patties. Disgusting. No thanks. I got bibimpab which was so-so edible, but I was just so disappointed after seeing all those yummy foods and not being able to find any when we were ready to eat. I did some immature whining and complained to mom that she shouldn’t stop me from eating when I’m hungry, and she did a pretty good job of not getting defensive and staying compassionate. At least we filled up, though I still wanted meat because I wouldn’t touch the bulgogi. We paid and left, and I felt guilty because I didn’t need to have such a stinky attitude. I wish that wasn’t something that was so hard for me: being cool when I’m hungry.


We came back to our hanok and took a nap: I kept thinking I should work or book an Airbnb for tomorrow or something, but it felt so good to be horizontal after all that walking and anyway, I told myself, I should enjoy the chance to lie down and relax next to my mom on this trip which is half-vacation, after all. We rested/slept for about two hours and now here I am writing. I got up afraid that if I slept more, I’d be groggy and gross and jet-lagged for dinner and wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Ellie’s friend Wan-Je is taking us out for dinner, possibly at some bark restaurant she liked where they served bark and trees. My family is so weird. Mom personally requested it because Ellie said it was delicious and healthy.


Mom and I are talking about Grandma a lot this trip and remembering her. We notice all the things that are similar to how she is (clean, fastidious, direct/outspoken) and we also think every other person looks like Uncle Steve.

Things I want to remember about Grandma:

How she drank a little glass of dark, flat malt beer with her lunch toward the end. To whet her appetite.

The way she stood over her stove making beefaroni, with broccoli or some other vegetable on the side.

The way she would interrupt conversations that were staying too surface-level by asking blunt questions starting with, “In other words…” i.e. “In other words, are you going to get married before I die, or not?”

How much she loved cheese doodles.

Her purple/magenta vest.

Put What Matters, First

There’s a simple mantra I’ve been utilizing lately that I call “put what matters first.” It’s the basic concept that in order to be happy and feel good about our lives, we should stop allowing what we most want and care about fall to the bottom of our to-do lists.

Take me, for example, For the longest time I’ve wanted to “be a writer.” Until I started grad school in an MFA program last fall, I used to cry about the part of me I missed who expressed my truth through written word. Writing used to be a joyful practice and a way for me to make sense of my life, but somehow without me noticing, it had disappeared from my life entirely. So I started grad school, and voila, I’m writing all the time! Right?

Wrong. The reality is that on top of being a devoted writer, I am also many other things. A  devoted sister, for one. My sister has a two year old who is unequivocally the most joyful being to spend time with. I want to spend time with my niece, my sister, and my parents too. I am also a good friend. And a good employee. A good member of the Jewish community, and a good yogi. A good cook, hiker, traveler, meditator, entrepreneur, and oh, and a good citizen! Not to mention I want to be a nice chill Californian. Whew, I’m exhausted from just thinking about all the things I want to be and do.

What happens as a result, is that my writing (something I supposedly care a lot about), falls to the bottom of my to-do list. Each day, I set out with an intention to write– even just a little bit– on the blog or on my book project. But each day, I run out of time. And next thing I know, I’m going to bed, recommitting to my priority of writing, but never getting around to it. Even those rare moments when inspiration strikes, and the perfect sentence is right there floating on the tip of my tongue waiting to become word on the page, I still tell myself, “Not yet, it can wait until I’ve finished filing my taxes or submitting this work project or running this one last errand.” And I feel like crap, because sure I’m super diligent and responsible, but I’m not expressing myself artistically and so what’s the point of even having a paycheck, which presumably is supposed to support me in living my best life.

Sound familiar? I’m guessing that you, too, are falling victim to the backward logic that leads us (especially as Americans) to put our priorities last. Perhaps you’ve decided that you want to spend more time with your family, but as you grind through work at the office with every intention of getting home by dinner time, you notice the clock seems to speed ahead as it gets closer to 5pm and next thing you know you’re apologizing for missing not only dinner but bedtime with the kids, too. Maybe you want to prioritize dating, but your calendar seems impossibly full with yoga classes, work events, and other people’s weddings.

Or maybe you’ve committed to finally getting in shape, and that exercise and taking care of your health is a #1 priority. But once dinner’s made, bills are paid, the house is cleaned up, and you’re finally free to go for that jog, you realize that you’re dead tired and there’s no way in hell you’re even putting on your running shoes let alone setting off down the block to get all sweaty and have to shower before hitting the sack. Or maybe you want to volunteer on a political cause, but each time you go to search for a project, you get overwhelmed by your existing commitments and decide that maybe it’s not the right time for you to step into civic engagement. You tell yourself, “Tomorrow, I’ll get to it. Next month, I’ll make it happen. When things calm down, I’ll….”

But things don’t calm down, do they? And day after day, your goal seems more and more unattainable, off on the ever-disappearing horizon. This is where putting what matters, first, comes in to play. I’ve noticed lately that no matter how busy I get, or how impossible it seems to find time in the day to work on my writing, if I drop what I’m doing (sleeping, eating, work) and commit to doing writing first, the rest naturally falls into place. I feel better and more aligned with my values. I feel a sense of accomplishment for the day, even if the kitchen’s a mess, returned those three missed calls, and still haven’t hunt up that new mirror from Ikea.

[Note: Even as the lightbulb went off in my head to write this blog post, which has been floating around in my head for over a week now, I found myself lying in bed with the blankets over my head going, “Do I HAVE to? Can’t I just get a good night’s sleep and do it tomorrow?” The answer that I knew internally (as much as I hated to admit it )was a resounding, No. I had to do it now, in this moment, and put it above sleep and even work, if I wanted to honor my designation of writing and service through writing as a priority.]

The truth is, life is short, and it’s busy. If we don’t remember to actually put what matters first, we’ll always be swamped in the muck of what doesn’t actually matter at all. Do what matters first, and the rest will follow. Or the rest can go fuck itself. Either way, you’ve done what you care about, so that when you look back at your day/week/month/year/life, you’ll have a pretty good sense of hey, would you look at that? I did what I set out to do. And that, my friends, is a pretty sweet feeling.

What matters to you? What happens if you try putting it first on your to-dos for the day, and actually make it happen before resistance and overwhelm kick in? Let me know in the comments.

A Visit to the Motherland: Me and Mom in Korea, Part I


May 9th, en route to Incheon

That my great grandparents were forced out of Korea, and we are returning… triumphant? That we are free to return, thank you, thank you…

It’s only two hours into our flight, and Mom and I already crying. Thinking about how awful it must have been for Hadabaji (Great-grandfather) and Halmeoni (Great-grandmother) to leave their country, their family, their status, everything to get on a boat (from Kobe) and sail east to Hawaii… No idea what they would find there, or how hard it would be. That they hoped to return someday, but never did. That they watched their country divided and ravaged by war, even after the Japanese invasion ended. That their son returned and was murdered by the North Korean communists. That their children never visited Korea.

Now, we are returning. My heart feels overflowing, as if it’s their grief I’m processing. I imagine they are watching our plane from above, as it flies toward the homeland. That Mom and I, granddaughter and great-granddaughter, cared enough to return. To see the place we were once from. To bring our bodies and spirits there, to ask questions, to know, to listen, to feel.

We are watching a movie about a grouchy old Korean woman who turns out to be learning English so she can testify against the Japanese soldiers who used her as a “comfort woman” when I realize that it wasn’t random that Grandma became so political. Her parents were part of the Korean national movement in Hawaii and discussed politics around the dinner table. From a young age, Grandma saw politics as a way to be involved in yours/your family’s/your nation’s well-being, reality. She was always telling us to stay abreast of politics, to listen to all sides. Sure, she eschewed communism (her brother Norman was killed by the North Korean communists after he reclaimed the family land and began farming on it post- World War Two), but Grandpa was in the Communist party as a young man, and so she followed.

Eventually, though, they both went way far right (Fox news/Tea party) and it was hard for me to relate with her political fervor. She always had a little poster hung that read, “freedom is not free” and American flags decorating her living room. For Grandma, it was first and foremost important to protect your own country. After all, her parents’s country had been ripped from them by force by the invading Japanese imperialist army. Their Korean culture had been suppressed or destroyed. It always seemed ironic to me that she’d get behind American “hawks” imposing the same cultural imperialism on other countries, but ultimately I guess she just bought into the rhetoric of keeping America American (she voted for Trump) and defending democracy at any cost—a distaste for foreign armies, perhaps.

On the plane ride over, Mom and I take turns napping in each other’s lap since the plane is only half full and we have an entire row to ourselves. An hour into the flight, they black out the windows with some crazy tinted screen thing, and though it’s daylight outside, the entire plane becomes dark.

Mom takes the first turn at napping. “Can I lie down?” she asks me.


“Which way should I lie?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, annoyed that she is interrupting my episode of Modern Family.

She lies down with her head next to my legs. “Have enough room?” she asks, and I nod, even though I don’t.

Twenty minutes later, she resurfaces. Her hair sticks up in all directions. Some falls into her face.

“Did I sleep?” she asks, sounding like a child.

I stare down at her. “You tell me.”

“Maybe twenty minutes?”

“Yeah, sounds right,” I say, wanting to get back to my show. “Got you a sandwich.”

She eats the ham off and gives me the bread, which I wolf down along with her m&ms. Plane rides always make me hungry.

“Want an apple?”

“Alright,” I say, “I’m desperate.”

We pass the apple back and forth, between bites, and watch a documentary together about a Step team in Baltimore during the Black Lives Matter protests.

Two movies later, I get bored and sleepy and decide to lie down. She offers me to lay my head down in her lap, and I do. I can feel her soft belly under my head, and wonder if it’s heavy, with my big head and all. I try to relax and stay in the present moment, but I’m horrible at daytime napping. All sorts of thoughts swirl and eventually I give up and sit up to write.

“Can I lie down?” she asks, as I’m typing.

“No! I’m just typing then I wanna lie back down!”

“Let me just take a twenty-minute turn,” she says, putting her head on my arm without waiting for my response, and putting her scarf over her face. I type now with my arm jammed next to my body. The man in front of us plays Texas Hold’em on his screen.

Mom clears her throat and shifts her head. It presses a nerve in my thigh. She seems to be falling asleep. I think about telling her it should be my turn to lie down, but I refrain. “Honor your parents,” I think to myself. “Filial duty.” It’s hard to be filial when your Mom is giving you a dead leg on a twelve-hour flight.

She feels me rustling and sits up. “How about we lie on each other, like my sister and I used to do when we were little on long car trips?”

I lie down and she lies atop me. Like puppies, I think. I don’t know where to put my arm and my ribs are squishing, but I can feel her breathing against me and I realize this is the intimacy, the closeness, the healing I’ve been asking for. So what if I crack a few ribs. Enjoy it while it lasts.

We fly a while like this, and then we switch. She feels me wriggling around. “I’m not a good napper,” I admit. It’s hard to get comfortable. “Me either,” she says, and it’s true. Mom, Grandma, and I all struggle with insomnia. “Hanna’s more comfortable to lie on,” I say, and Mom agrees. “She’s so soft!” I’m bony.

I sit awake, my eyes burning. I can’t watch anymore TV. I go to the bathroom and stretch my legs in the aisle. I try meditating, but sitting upright is hard after all these hours. Eventually, I pull out my laptop, and do the only thing left to do: write.

A few hours, and a few stretch breaks later, I’m taking my turn lying down, but still can’t sleep. A flight attendant comes by. From underneath my sweater mask, I hear him ask Mom,

“Are you staying in Korea?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“Do you have a Korean passport?”


“Is she traveling with you?” I presume he’s gesturing at my curled-up body in Mom’s lap.


“Does she have a Korean passport?”


My heart drops, hearing this. Of course I don’t have a Korean passport, but couldn’t I have, had things not happened the way they had? A blonde Korean great-granddaughter. It’s not like they left wanting to forfeit their Korean-ness for all posterity. I ponder. My mind spinning, I wish I could just stop it and sleep. I’m gonna be tired when we arrive.

“Will you pat me?” I ask Mom, but she doesn’t hear me. She is filling out the customs form.

Your Mind is a Garden


A story:

I went to stretch my legs outside of Nomad Cafe in South Berkeley/North Oakland. As I was walking, enjoying the sunshine and flowers, I noticed a young Black man crouched in the dirt up the block a little ways. As I drew nearer, I noticed myself wondering if something was off, and a glimmer of fear arise in my mind. Reminding myself that this is a product of racism in the news media: that I am programmed to feel afraid in the face of a black man, any black man, no matter what he is doing, I urged myself to continue walking and breathing. As I approached closer, my rational mind entered a conversation with my reptilian mind. Sure, my rational brain told me, even if he was carrying a weapon, which he 99% was likely not to be, he would have no reason to harm me as I passed. Most likely he was just searching for a lost item or something equally innocent. Still, my colonized reptilian mind asked me “But what if he’s not? Isn’t it better safe than sorry?” At that moment, I chose to listen in to my body. Was my intuition telling me? I listened and felt no fear, and so I walked onward. As I grew close enough to see him, I saw that this young man in question was digging in the dirt with a tool of some sort. Then, I noticed the gardening gloves. And the weeds he was pulling out, gently, with focus and determination. This young man was weeding a public flowerbed.

This story is  hard for me to share because I worry that it will reveal me as racist, and I feel shame around the assumptions and suspicions that arise in me, not just today, but every day. But I’m sharing it in the hopes that our conversations about race and state violence against black people and people of color can become more honest, more vulnerable, and more human. I offer it as a remind to us people of privilege to listen to our intuition and souls so that we may remember that our minds have been polluted with falsehoods and fear as we walk through our days. Slowly, slowly, we heal together.


Thoughts? Reactions? Please share with me in the comments. We cannot do this work alone.



Re-engaging Activism and the Sadness I feel for Having Been an Ostrich During Trump’s First 18 months.


In wanting and feeling called to step back into activism and service, I am feeling a sense of shame and sadness for having been “asleep” with my head in the sand for the past year and a half since Trump came to office. A sense of “who am I to think I’m needed now, and not for the past year?” It was only out of privilege that I was able to ignore the news: why now? Am I just doing this to make myself feel good? Am I a fraud and a hypocrite? Do I even have anything valuable to contribute?

The answer, I know, is of course yes, but first there exists a profound sense of sadness and the feeling of embracing a lost part of myself, as if welcoming home a close friend or loved one who’s been gone for a long time. One that I need to pause and engage with. I feel like asking her, “Where have you been and why did you leave me?” This morning, my coworker helped me remember that maybe it’s possible this reappearing part of me has grown stronger or bolder in the interim, and hey, maybe she’s right! I remember, now, that it was a conscious choice to lay down my activist calendar and tools, and to humbly learn how to live without feeling obligated to “fix” things. That I was constantly making a mess by trying to be “right,” and that taking action was futile when in fact I needed to heal my self, first. To learn how to feel value, and to sit with non-doing. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for the past year and change. Sitting with myself, observing my mind, and learning how to be: in relationship, with myself, with spirit, and with others, without jumping reflexively into “let’s solve it” mode. That, along with grieving the loss of a relationship, and my maternal grandmother who was also one of my greatest teachers.

So here I am, humbled in my non-action, ready for action, and not knowing where to start. It’s not that I am “healed,” but rather that I am entering a new phase of feeling called to engage with the world from a place of more vulnerable and authentic leadership and communication. My intent and hope for myself is that I can re-engage slowly: with mindfulness and intention, leading with relationships and genuine connection with the curiosity that drives my service-self. Where am I needed? What is happening? Who could use my presence? What can I offer that will be healing for both of us? One step at a time, and taking time between each step to breathe, and just be.

Know of a project or cause you want to tell me about? Let’s chat. Leave a note in the comments or contact me directly at