Big Life

The Last Time.

January 23, 2025 · By Amy Swift Crosby

The “last time” we do anything is rarely known, at the moment we experience it.

I don’t remember the “last time” I read my girls a story in bed, or the last time I got a letter from my dad, nor the last time we’d have our Thanksgiving party on School Street. Some things are the gradual – the undetectable consequence of time – while others are interrupted by the unexpected – an accident, a pandemic.

And so it was with the fire that burned down our house and neighborhood two weeks ago.

I didn’t realize there would be a last time I wore those earrings from Ghana found at a Parisian flea market, or that I’d be explaining the picture of me after hiking Kilimanjaro – for the last time. Opening the dutch door in the magic hour of evening light, walking to the bluffs with Renee, wearing my grandmother’s pearls with jeans, meeting at the gate for neighborhood news with Matt… for the last time.

We hadn’t lived in our house for 47 years, like the couple I encountered at Target yesterday, half dazed, buying a new vacuum cleaner. But we’d traveled with so many of our things for decades, through 9 cross-country moves, between us. Heirlooms, keepsakes – notes from friends who are no longer here.

Some “things” are just things.

But other things tell our (your) story.

Narratives that explain who we are to other people, yes, but mostly they are clues to who we are and how we became… ourselves.

We recognize who we are by what we’ve done, who we’ve known, what we’ve seen. The objects that surround us are the breadcrumbs of memory, and memory is the framing of a life. When those cues evaporate, within minutes, in the dark of night, among many feelings is one of panic; an almost automatic need to acknowledge everything in the house as a means to retrieving the experiences and relationships they embody. Will I forget the reason we have that lithograph? That painted dove? Will I remember exactly what she wrote me in that card, since she’s no longer here to tell me?

Our things don’t make us who we are, yet they are the receipts that remind us of a conversation, the mood of a certain life chapter, a relationship through time. From the profoundly meaningful to the profoundly funny (maybe two versions of the same thing), they form our emotional DNA.

People naturally want to know – how are you guys doing?

Well, I find myself very tired. I can’t make plans more than a few hours or at most a day in advance.

We have been flooded with support, donations, and just as much love as a person can hold in a heart. From those we’ve known for 40 years to those we met last week, the level of showing up has unspooled our most stoic instincts.

All of this matters immensely in a crisis, when it comes to a hard or soft landing.

Yet, the empty feeling lurks behind new corners. And it’s an exhausting kind of presence.

Simple daily moments are disorienting.

Looking for that ceramic mug, a gift from the Australian exchange students.

Or the bathing suit that always works.

That cashmere blanket I sewed back together after the kids tried to use it as a tent.

(That raggedy house-sweater that absolutely no one misses but me.)

And, during many moments throughout the day, I feel lucky.

We got to walk away from what could have been even worse.

Still, that life is over – a strange weight dragging behind me as I make slow progress on starting a new one.

But going through a singular life-changing event brings with it a different contour than a collective, community-wide trauma. There is some comfort walking this road with so many others who also said goodbye to a life without realizing their last times in it. The togetherness of what could have felt deeply lonely is not the sense of belonging anyone hopes to have. Yet, it is the difference that makes the sadness, the inertia, the lost feeling, and even the joys and highs that have surprised us since then – shared.

The “last time” is often not recognizable as the finale.

And living as though each daily circumstance “could” be, carries its own stress.

But… and this is unequivocally not a silver lining kind of “but.”

Maybe it’s a means to see things through the framing of the “first time,” instead.

A perspective of novelty, curiosity – of possibility.

It might be the only way to walk forward, since this experience is genuinely the first time any of us have lost, witnessed or processed this much, all at once.

Mileage.

May 10, 2022 · By Amy Swift Crosby

Literally and metaphorically, we define it as “the distance traveled.”

But not all mileage on life’s many road trips is equal, nor are all distances even perceptible. While some of our journeys beg for acknowledgement, others we prefer to travel under (emotional) cover.

Crossing a finish line, recovering from illness, giving birth, publishing a book — all observable, and anyone paying attention can easily see and appreciate the miles — both where we started and how far we’ve come. Recognition, even applause, is implied and often expected for certain labors. These miles have what I think of as two-way visibility. Easy to witness another’s joy (or pain) from the outside, easy to feel witnessed on the inside.

But there are other journey’s that are more of an “inside job” — times we each need to make our way through certain dark forests in what feels akin to the middle of the night. This is mileage where the emotional complexity calls for privacy and anonymity. We are the sole decider of what to reveal, and when (if ever.) This is analogous to one-way visibility — only we know our true circumstances, despite what iceberg tip can be seen from outside. We might be beset with rage, grief, chagrin or despondency, but no matter how high or low the volume internally, to the world we go dark and quiet for a spell. Nearby “witnesses” have to make nuanced decisions about how to express empathy, knowing that the “walker” has signaled social hibernation.

Of course, we are both “walker” and “witness” at any given time.

As the walker, the need for recognition — or, conversely, secrecy — is threaded to a complex web of what being “seen” in our mileage (then) means. Do I want people to know about my journey? What part? How much?

How we witness others in their respective miles traveled also bears some responsibility. How do we appreciate, identify, raise a glass? What is “enough”?

But, because visibility isn’t always two-way, it’s not simply the fork-in-the-road I’ve presented above. For one, there are the invisible miles — the kind we long to be seen in but (logistically or otherwise) can be hard for others to observe (and acknowledge).

Think…

Paperwork. Consider all the onerous admin you do for work-life or home-life, for the benefit of everyone involved. Bills paid, insurance claims filed, disputes waged — these get little (if any) credit. Necessary work, but largely invisible.

Future-planning. If you’re the magical fairy who books the vacation, invests the dollars, anticipates the waitlist — the forethought tasks, I call them — you know that while everyone appreciates them when they bear fruit, the months and weeks beforehand go largely unnoticed.

Housework is a famously underappreciated exertion that needs no explanation.

Maybe more significantly, but less discussed, is emotional labor. Are you always the one to make amends, investigate the feeling, anticipate the gift, manage the client/in-law/tricky friendship? Do you hold space where someone else sucks up air?

Invisible work can be classified as, “effort that’s hard to see or measure.” Some people need more appreciation for invisible work than others. But voiced or not, most of us wouldn’t mind more noticing here.

But there’s another, even more convoluted dimension to the mileage conversation: What happens when we agree on two-way visibility (we both think we’re seeing the same kind of mileage), but perception of miles traveled is still vastly different?

One of my favorite, (okay, irksome) examples of this gap is what I like to call, “the Great Start problem.”

As a copywriter, I work with creative agencies on strategy and messaging projects. Because of my role in the process, I am often the first person on the team to put ideas to paper — to press “send” on one of several rounds of words and concepts. This initial thinking — my first draft — can take days or weeks.

Whether the work is bullseye or not, being the first to submit work calls for a little egoic Teflon. I still have butterflies when I submit the words, even two-decades down the road. But what I’m (at least) sure of is that my mind has collected enough mileage over the years to assume my first draft is part one of a strong creative iteration.

So, when a creative director or other agency lead says the following words, I feel an emotional road flare go up. Those two words are, “great start.”

Seems innocent enough.

Surely, they mean to be encouraging.

But, what I actually hear is:

“You’ve barely touched the problem we’re trying to solve.”

There’s a mileage gap here (regardless of whether my perception of “great start” is valid or not.) The beginning for them isn’t at all the beginning for me, ten-plus hours (+20 years) into the work.

“Great start” underestimates what it takes to make meaning from a blank page.

“Great start” presumes minimal effort, despite maximum (if early) thinking.

But this is not a writing rant.

Imagine looking at early sketches for what will become a watercolor and telling the artist, “great start.” Unless this is a student who started two hours ago, it’s a bummer.

Think of a child at work on a sandcastle — whether it’s award-winning or dilapidated. Unless you know it’s only been 10 minutes of building, “great start” may offend the kid who started on it three hours ago.

The architect of effort/creative output, whatever her experience level, may not resonate with (the potentially condescending) “great start.”

There’s no mal intent in it, but there is a misunderstanding of miles traveled. The consequence? It’s defeating.

A defeated creative doesn’t want to stay on the project.

A defeated employee doesn’t want to show up for work.

A defeated child/spouse/friend doesn’t want to try… at all.

It’s interesting that it’s not just that we are seen, but that the depth and breadth of the work we put forth can be met with right-sized mileage.

So, how to be a more valuable witness to the miles invested — even when they are impossible to see?

Assume generously. The beginning for one is rarely the start for another.

Be specific in recognition. The best shout-outs include something that could only be said to that person — not the general public.

The luckiest among us have a handful of astute witnesses who are truly therapeutic in this sense. They reliably see us. Recognize them for that gift.

As for me, the “walker” in this case, I’m working on a better internal response to “great start.”

Miles traveled? I’m calling it a slow start.

Everything.

December 28, 2020 · By Amy Swift Crosby

I like to look back before I leap forward – although no one could be blamed for sprinting away from the talons of 2020. But, as this year comes to a close, I’ve tried to find a way to organize a tangle of asynchronous reflections.

I knew the process wouldn’t be neat, nor would my conclusion have a bow. Still, I searched for the essence of this unforgettable swath of time; A way to put the file …not so much away, but in the cabinet. Maybe you have, too.

What I found is that in a year like no other, opposing sets of circumstances always seemed to be uncannily, at times disturbingly, within arms-reach – even minutes reach – of each other. And while we were united by shared assaults against life as we knew it, our individual experiences within the bounds of these calamities varied so widely.

In some lives, things were “unprecedented,” changing daily and generally stressful. But they were survivable. Parents toggled between repetitive meal prep, academics they’d long forgotten and attempts at meaningful work. Families had little privacy, relentless proximity. Sinks were full of dishes, and strangely both uncertainty – and predictability – were a constant.

In others, disease, outrage and mother nature devastated towns and families. Politics tore through others. Homes and incomes disappeared. Businesses evaporated. And, in too many cases, loved ones never came home.

We sought ways to treat our fragility and anxiety.

We weren’t sensitive enough.
We were so sensitive.
Sometimes we were “blessed.”
Sometimes we were everyone else.

And of course, people faced the usual crises and curveballs that had nothing to do with any of this. Because contrast – light and dark, grief and joy – are always neighbors, whether visible or not.

So, it’s not a revelation that we exist in a state of vulnerability, in all our days, mitigated by moments of super-human strength, effective distraction and a false (but convincing) sense of impermeability.

But there was something else: There was good news in 2020, which (for some reason) is very hard to say or even to write.

Amidst all of the wreckage, there was still magic to be found. Miracles, even. As a message-maker, it’s possible that I have a hyper-awareness of the words and subtext of culture and zeitgeist – and maybe a sensitivity to how the copy gets crafted, all things considered (which they always have to be, in my world.)

But…

Celebrating anything almost seemed worse than unsympathetic, it felt hedonistic. There were times in my own life, and still are, where I might normally share some sacred or worthy moment with my small corner of the world, but it has felt trite. I’ve had reluctance to fully enjoy or rejoice, even privately, in the midst of so many who have lost something they couldn’t get back.

Unrelated personal struggles, or even victories, can feel so irrelevant in the context of all else. It has even been hard to mourn legitimate but non-threatening elements to life like serendipity and chance encounters, when lives and livelihoods have been decimated.

Messages across social media urged gratitude – in various ways and at different volumes. This isn’t an unexpected (or disingenuous) reaction – it’s often where we go in the ruins. And I did find thanks easily, and daily.

Yet in 2020, some of those messages of blessedness bordered on sanctimonious, as though some of us were chosen for a lesser nightmare, while others were left to suffer more profoundly. There was a certain packaging that bothered me – a need for something positive to come from a variety of difficult, painful, inexplicable situations.

A few years ago, after the attacks in a Paris nightclub, I published a piece called Dualite, with much the same sentiment. The tragedy in Newtown, CT, had a similar agony. As humans, we must function in our roles and vocations, with our own hopes and dramas, while living in the presence of the irreconcilable. Nothing good, at all, comes of some events.

I’ve struggled to acknowledge and feel all of this; and also wondered where I haven’t acknowledged enough.

Have you experienced this sensation I’m trying to identify?
Is it a cautiousness in vocalizing (or demonstrating?) happiness… because your mind and heart feel a responsibility to shoulder some of the collective weight? For me, it’s a sense that if I fully give in to pleasure, it robs someone, somewhere, of some effort to help carry their more burdensome load. Instead of nourishment, I’ve felt it as a withdrawal.

Metaphysically, this has no basis. Literally it might not either. But it has been my feeling.

I don’t have a tidy answer (not sure there should be, actually.)
But here’s what’s clear.

If we got the gift of nothingness, we were lucky.
If we weren’t in a hurry, we were lucky.
If we didn’t have to show up to active duty in one of the handful of wars waged this year, we were lucky.
If we gained time… with ourselves, with our home-mates, with friends in need of connection, we were lucky.

I asked myself a question at one point, which was: In the face of all that is wrong, unjust, inhumane, unfair, disheartening, dishonest, disproportionate… how can I keep my own life moving forward, doing valuable things, in service, even if those projects aren’t directly tied to survival? I resolved that advancing personal or professional missions has never implied an ignorance or disassociation from the gravest, most urgent of matters in our orbit. As long as action is also taken where it counts.

And.
Anger or sadness can’t be the only legitimate feelings.
Nor is obliviousness an option, as it cheats us of an opportunity to feel the experience of others who aren’t like us.

So, maybe the practice is assimilation, versus compartmentalization; holding the brutal, and the beautiful, without the need to make immediate sense of either. This is always the truth of life, not just these past nine months.

We can find real silver linings, it’s true. I’m not denying that there are some. But I think we often extract them as a public relations tactic – an escape hatch to avoid (said plainly), really hard feelings. It’s natural to want to turn lemons into lemonade – to shove 2020 into the vault and throw away the key. It’s the way we finish the long sentence that was this year.

But we went through something, and we went through it alone and together.
People will come out with scars.
Some will walk, breathe and exist differently for a very long time.
We aren’t going back… to anything. No such thing.

Our work is beginning, not ending.

Instead of renouncing 2020 – or allowing it to be relegated to a meme or idiomatic expression – could we recognize this year without resolving to learn a lesson? Could we walk with our experiences and not away from them?

It can’t become the year that wasn’t.
It was so much.

Here’s to everything, in 2021.

Eddy.

July 7, 2020 · By Amy Swift Crosby

I often look to the natural world to help remind me that everything… is a reflection of everything. Like so many, I am often drawn to the river as a metaphor – a wordless guide for how to think about what comes (or goes) in life.

To be water rushing and winding over stones, whose edges have been rounded by time.
To flow effortlessly through a steep gorge or dense pine forest.
To know where to go next, without question.

When I can’t identify a feeling, can’t pull the answer from a canon; when the walls are too close or the infinite too formless – I often think of the river.

I don’t spend enough time near one, but just the thought of its continuous movement helps me make sense, make meaning, make peace – even make less unnecessary effort. Thinking of a river’s purposeful, yet entirely unconscious mission – a mission met just by existence itself – is as mesmerizing as it is calming.

These past months, as they’ve rolled on, have only occasionally resembled a river for me. That unmistakable sense of motion, and progress – has been fleeting. Although initially life slowed down (to the joy of introverts everywhere), delivering an unexpected pause and reset, it was only a matter of time before the days recalibrated to a different kind of fullness, albeit with a new cadence and revised schedule. As dinner called for invention (a nightly magic show) and projects required attention (despite hourly stops and starts), I felt – and am – busy.

But not busy in a jagged, harried way – although the demands of this changing home life / work-life / inner life / creative life present new ebbs and flows. It’s something else. It’s a persistent feeling, like a whisper of disorientation – of internal deceleration. A longing to be carried (rescued?) by the reassuring current of new ideas, fresh energy and encouraging patterns. To feel somewhere versus elsewhere; to find the chi.

When I’ve asked myself “what’s wrong?” I’ve struggled to identify it. Despite the optics – relocating across the country with my family, closing one part of a business and resuscitating another – the conversation with myself had become eerily anesthetized.

Is it that now – with scant mental mile markers – I feel “lost”? Or is it more like “unmoored”? “floating”? “rudderless”? It’s not stagnation, nor depression, yet there’s a perceptible sensation of weight; of drag. Maybe because, like everyone, I’ve had to reconsider my personal mileage – to establish new types of milestones, to consider how “productivity” (unfortunately) supports my self-esteem, or how I rely on variety to clarify purpose.

I fully recognize that I’m not alone in this.

I’ve reasoned that because my professional work is to create narrative and “story,” those same devices feel central to how I remember, and make sense of, my own timeline. Just as looking at a brand’s mode of expression requires looking inside it, and often to its history, in order to create the “now,” maybe I personally need to thread the needle of the past in order to establish coordinates for my present (and to understand why). For me, they appear as little maps with roads – each with discernible topography and signposts, weather patterns and surprises. They’ve always been full of left turns and off-ramps, diversions and invitations.

Without them to trigger “next”, my compass has almost felt broken.

What is so appealing to me about the call of the river, so unequivocal and desirable, is direction. There’s no sideways or backward; no wind that takes it one way, one day, only to reverse the next. It rushes, curves and meanders…sometimes with disarming ferocity, and at others with an easygoing smile. But always forward. No matter how the riverbed or surrounding landmass impacts the pace, it makes its way… forward.

Except!
(this was my exhale…)
Except for the eddy.

Eddies: Sections of the river that actually move upstream. Eddies are created when the main current flows around an obstruction and as the main flow of water continues downstream, some water backs up on itself to refill the space left behind the obstacle.

Trapped in the eddy is how I have felt.
Oh what. A. Relief.

To know that the seemingly, most synchronous organisms have a coping mechanism for some immovable element introduced to the environment; that what appears to be a separate phenomenon is actually just a confluence of events that lead water one way… until some catalyst (natural or constructed) folds it back into itself. That. Is. It.

Of course, even the river has a history – if you look. It’s not as though the impact of space and time doesn’t exist in its clarity or opacity, with subtle (or obvious) impressions throughout its ecosystem. But it doesn’t possess that human need to derive narrative from it – to weave the past to the present as a means to better understanding today or tomorrow. It goes one way, on all days – except for when it can’t – in small pockets. It doesn’t need to review yesterday or ask directions for tomorrow.

My favorite part of understanding the eddy’s role in the river is that the lodged water will always be swept back into the movement, because it was never separated from it to begin with.

That water never “disappeared” so it’s not as though it needs to “come back.”
It was, in the simplest terms, adapting.

This small but meaningful epiphany caused a shift, one that freed – and paradoxically – re-anchored me. I felt my energy change shape – and just like that…I was back in the flow.

Getting out of the eddy had nothing to do with strength or muscle, nor strategy, nor even much thinking or grand act of mental gymnastics.
It was less seeking, more surrender.
It was less arranging, more allowing.
These takeaways won’t surprise any regular reader of this work, of course.

Looking for the current, waiting and angling for it to come get me, was actually swimming against it.

The eddy is the solution, not the problem.
What a thing to discover.

Company.

April 6, 2020 · By Amy Swift Crosby

Photo: @sanddiary

In my house, we’ve been talking about how it is to be with… each other.
In my mind, I’ve been thinking about how it is to be with, period.

With two tween girls, and the fourth member of our family in another state, our togetherness – and even our apartness – has a quality to it.

I’ve reminded everyone that we are who and what we have. And, that our togetherness colors our worlds. We can lift, annoy or deflate each other… in an instant.

To them, I’ve asked –

Am I being good company… for you?
Are you being good company…for us?

It got me thinking – what does it mean to be good company? And what does this moment help us see about each other – about “us” – that we might not face in the midst of life as we knew it?

We’re mostly in the business of evaluating how others push and pull us. We’ve become semi-professional articulators of how your habit/way/mood/view…impacts me and mine. But how often do we consider how it is to be them…around us? Or even, how is life with me…
as me?

With proximities we haven’t had before, and for durations that transcend any past frames of reference, our togetherness (or aloneness) has created new sensations, perhaps even revelations – welcome or not.

Nothing is how it was.
Yet simultaneously…
Some things, how ever they were, have now become magnified.

A natural instinct would be to continue to manufacture distractions – as that is what we know how to do so well. But that would miss this unprecedented opportunity, where life has paused out there…where we could make eye contact with right here, right now and see
something important.

On a more superficial level, I see that for myself it’s easy to react with jagged edges to various triggers – be it my tiny roommate’s leftover dishes on the coffee table or a silent (but definitely judgmental) response to someone or something on social media. On a dark day, it can sound like my greatest hits of personal disappointment – the voices of every little or big way I’ve let myself (or others) down. The compare = despair machinery wakes up – even in these new conditions.

Under normal circumstances, I might quickly reset myself with – so what? To what end? And arrive, ultimately at … move on…no time (or energy) for that.

But that grounding exercise is easier to do when the proverbial “edge” is within sight.

When the world made sense (a month or two ago), we measured our reality – our overall OK-ness – through a dynamic lens, often comparing what is to what could be. Whether we’re aware of it or not, we are almost always self-regulating our relationship with good, getting better…bad, getting worse…stagnant, not going anywhere. We have end dates. Start dates. Calendars. Before we let a feeling submerge too deeply, it’s probably time to …make dinner, see friends, meet a work deadline…get on a plane. Diversion was our frequent companion.

And it’s not that we didn’t feel, or let ourselves feel – if you’re reading this – you’re a feeler, like I am. We feel.

But now, whether alone or with others, the feelings that might have stayed boxed away in storage have nowhere to go, but here.

For me, these mercurial tides take the form of reflections, questions and ruminations about my purpose, about my relationships. They can wash over me in huge waves or nip like tiny laps at my ankle. In these moments, I don’t know whether it’s harder to be with, or to be alone.

There are times when my own company is startlingly honest. I’ve been aware of a pattern emerging, noticing the distance between how I feel and what I want, and what I do about it.

I’m not always ready to face these emotional voicemails.
Yet, I don’t want to be afraid of them.

Are the answers to questions of being good company – for each other, for ourselves – more important to answer today? Are they more pressing than a month ago, or a year before that? Will they be as important six months from now? I don’t know.

What is pressing is this unusual opportunity, despite its dark catalyst. Our accepted constructs of time and space have been redefined, removing the usual barriers to eliciting authentic answers. Our emotional nerve centers, more porous these days, are letting more in…letting more out…with fewer filters. We’ve been invited to what could be a one-time conversation, if we’re willing to accept.

What an opening to take inventory of our impact; on each other, on our worlds – both literal and figurative.

How am I, for you?
How am I…for me?
How are we?

We are always keeping company.
This seems like a rare moment to inquire about how it is, to be us.

Connected.

March 24, 2020 · By Amy Swift Crosby

Today, I got down on my knees and did something I’m slightly ashamed to say… I haven’t done in a very long time.

I cleaned all the floors in my house.
I scrubbed the corners of the bathrooms, the places that no one sees until they look too closely.
I scoured the kitchen, edge to edge.

It is a privilege (under normal circumstances) to be able to outsource this work.
At the same time, it was on my knees that felt right on this day.

On one’s knees there is humility. It’s the way we pray; it’s where we play with our babies, and where we come to understand what vulnerability really means. It’s often where we cry.

There’s something about being close to the ground, the earth. The act of lowering our bodies also lowers our walls, our egos, our pride.

Once, when I was in India, I saw something that I still think of often.

I was sitting in the courtyard of a shrine, an open square surrounded by an ancient wall whose center housed a divine Hindi god. There are hundreds like them.

Thousands of people, of all socioeconomic groups, were making their way in and out. The very, very poor — shoeless, toothless, penniless — stood alongside the very rich, with expensive watches and waiting drivers. Some were moving slowly, others in a rush. Worship, in India is a daily devotional practice — a stop on the way to work as much as a holy family outing.

I watched as throngs of people poured out of every doorway, walking briskly past the others who had prostrated themselves in front of the structure itself — some, kneeling, noses down, others laid out on their bellies, arms outstretched in supplication. This chaotic scene plays out often there — to the curiosity of Westerners who can’t imagine ourselves face down in our own sacred venues — which might be church for some, or a concert for others.

A young man, maybe 20-years old, in his rush to leave, inadvertently stepped on the arm of an elder woman still in the process of worship. With her face down buried into the stone, she most certainly felt the injury — it was the full weight of his body on her frail wrist. But she didn’t move.

Realizing his miscalculation in space, he quickly turned back to her, and without registering a second of contemplation — he got down on his knees, and kissed both souls of her aged, bare, blackened feet. As quickly as he had knelt, I was no sooner looking at the back of his checked shirt, pushing the turn style to leave.

She never looked up.
And he never turned to see if she did.

What will it take for us…to get here?
To feel this sense of connectedness?

Something passed between them, yet no thanks was given, no validation sought. But humanity, nonetheless, was undeniably present. The act itself, of course, transcended all practical precaution for hygiene, a behavior that has become part of our daily consciousness at this moment — a practice that could (in fact) determine life or death.

But even at that moment, it wasn’t the act itself I hoped to replicate, but more that such instinctual reverence for a complete stranger could be second nature… that seemed worth emulating.

I chose my knees today because I think it was the only place that matched my emotional hillside.

It was devotion.
It was humility.
It was surrender.

Older Posts

The Last Time.

Mileage.

Everything.

Eddy.

Company.

Connected.

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