on being late, or, process walls
an essay about the the growth that begins in the darkness of the soil, a poet, sycamore fig trees, and working through the fear of falling behind in your own story
unforced rhythms of grace
The sun was setting as I waited in my car in the parking lot of my friend’s apartment complex, jotting down some ideas for a poem in my journal. I looked up as two boys, probably about ten years old, came racing down to the dumpsters, laughing, hauling their massive bags of trash above their heads and hurling them into