Some of us build our lives on the wreckage left behind. We make a sturdy space to walk. We cast out for sustenance. And we grow.
It’s Purim and everything is upside down the way it’s supposed to be...And it is here that I can let my dad’s present absence in.
On transformation - and the space in between all the stops along the way.
We need a sense of history so deep it’s more like memory.
What's the point of remembering when memories are flawed anyway?
I used to hate small talk. I still mostly do. But I'm starting to think we might be able to redeem it.
When we are all muddling around in the dark, what will light up the night?
A meditation on the demands of memory, and the roots of personal identity
