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  • Thunder, Lightning, and I Found My Spirit Animal

    August 6, 2019 by

    Ahhhhh, Takhini Hot Springs… a lovely outdoor Olympic pool-sized bath fed by the natural hot springs of the Takhini underworld, where everything moves as if in slow-motion– like after dancing it up all night in the club then walking into daylight for the first time in a blurry-eyed state of blissful exhaustion just as the… Read more

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  • Now’s the time to make art

    April 4, 2020 by

    Everything happens in threes. Last fall my grandmother passed away. A month ago my husband’s father died. I always wondered who’s going to be the third? And then coronavirus happened. So much grief. We don’t know anyone personally who has passed from the coronavirus. We live in Juneau Alaska where so far only 10 people… Read more

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  • Hands

    March 28, 2020 by

    Dear Reader, I hope all of you are finding some good in this surreality we are living in. I don’t know about you, but I have come to appreciate this time to press pause, take a deep breath, reflect, write, read, and connect with family and friends (over various virtual platforms). I’ve gotten more fresh… Read more

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  • From a Distance

    March 17, 2020 by

    Today we drew animals and read about the Titanic. We drove our cars slowly— imagine a snail, then slow it down even more. Every day is like a Sunday, like moving underwater, like when Alaska burned & smoke circled us in a dream. What other than a crisis can put you in the moment, without… Read more

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  • stop and smell the proses

    January 23, 2020 by

    Here in the Prose Garden, we dig into the news that you won’t hear on the radio. Nature holds a mirror up to ourselves as we explore the entropy of humanity, parenting, and life in Southeast Alaska. awards: Winner of Alaska Statewide Poetry contest, Spring 2020, Fairbanks Arts Association Ukiyoto Publishing Best Global Blogs of… Read more

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  • the day before snow

    January 14, 2020 by

    A devil’s club graveyard all that remains, bones of a mighty clubbed fortress reduced to small brown skeletons, silent, still scaffolds of what once was. This is how you say madrugada in English– the coldest, darkest, undead hour when spirits roam the earth, right before the first snow:  the rainforest so dry and quiet bones and shapes, negative space,… Read more

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