I've explored many Death Cafés in Manhattan. They were fascinating events filled with warm, open people, and while they didn't answer my spiritual questions, they gave me an idea that just might....
A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
Strangers can be wildly fascinating, both in person and on social media. The opportunities they offer for connection and expanded perception are beautiful and downright mystical.
What's the point of remembering when memories are flawed anyway?
I always look down to see the needle enter my arm, so that I can better understand the frailty of life. It stings a little as it goes in, but the pain is worth it.
A poem about craving immortality, seeking home, and meeting a mediocre God.
I've never understood the vast appeal of sex, flirting, and the like. Because of this, the world can feel confusing and strange. Still, I hesitate to label myself "asexual": the term seems too clinical for my freewheeling spirit.
Exactly 22 years ago, July 23, 1993 , was the first time I realized that my mom could die one day. Which meant that I could die too.
Appearance-based prejudice is everywhere, and I am very guilty despite my ideals. It's hard to overcome, but let's try.
And then I see that which I can not un-see. What it looks like when a car so barbarically hits an elderly man. What it looks like when the Angel of Death wrestles Man. What it looks like when spirit starts to fade from matter.
