Inkvolution

 

Inkvolution

The first inks were born of fire and earth. Long before bottled pigment and sleek cartridges, people made do with what they had. They mixed soot, charcoal, ash, minerals, plants, and even the residue of flame itself. The earliest carbon pigment ink is distinguished by its deep black color and faint sheen. The ancient Egyptians and Chinese were already producing it by 2500 BCE, blending fine soot, or lampblack, with a water-soluble binder such as animal glue or gum arabic from the acacia tree. The result was a rich black that clung to papyrus and silk. It was a voice made visible.

Later came iron gall ink, the long-reigning monarch of European writing from the Middle Ages through the nineteenth century. This formula relied on quiet chemistry: tannic acid from oak galls mixed with ferrous sulfate. When the two met, they produced a deep blue-black that gradually turned into a warm, rusty brown. Gum arabic again served as the binder, keeping the pigment in suspension and helping it stick to the page. The ink was durable and nearly indelible. This durability is why so many of our oldest manuscripts still survive.

Across the world, other cultures turned to the resources of their own landscapes. Sepia ink from cephalopods provided early writers with a dark, blue-black hue and a subtle shimmer. Celtic and Pict warriors crushed woad leaves to create a vivid blue pigment for body paint. American colonists simmered black walnuts with vinegar and gum arabic to produce a deep, earthy ink. The Maya mixed indigo with a special clay to create Maya Blue, a color so stable it still resists fading after centuries. Mineral pigments, such as red ochre and malachite, produced vibrant reds and greens. This proves that creativity has always been bound to the land itself.

Recently, I decided to make my own batch of oak gall ink by following the same steps ancient scribes practiced. Crushing the galls, steeping them, and watching the liquid grow dark felt like more than a craft project. It was like an ancient memory returning through my hands. As I stirred, a recognition rose within me. I became aware that something deep and old was awakening, as if generations of makers stood beside me, guiding the process.

In Tarot, Wands are the suit of fire. They symbolize creation, inspiration, and the first spark of an idea. Pentacles, by contrast, belong to the element of earth and represent craft, labor, and the tangible work of bringing a vision into form. The first inks, born of flame and soil, exist in that intersection. Fire transforms wood into charcoal and soot. Earth provides minerals, resins, galls, and clay that make the substance whole. Together, they show the eternal dialogue between inspiration and manifestation.

Each time I work with ink, I feel that meeting of forces. The stroke of a pen becomes a meditation on balance. It is a moment between the invisible spark of imagination and the physical mark it leaves behind. To write, to draw, to create something lasting—these acts honor both the flame and the ground that sustains it.

It is humbling to realize that these same ingredients—drawn from tree, mineral, and fire—have carried human thought across millennia. Each time I dip a pen into that dark, living ink, I sense a thread extending through time. It connects me to everyone who has ever tried to keep an idea from vanishing into the air.

Creativity & Gratitude

 

My creative world has been full lately, in the best possible way. I’ve returned to exchanging pen pal letters, finding something deeply grounding in the slower rhythm of handwriting and the quiet joy of connection through paper and ink. Between letters, I sketch, often sparked by biopics that linger with me long after the credits roll—each activity feeding into the next.

Research and writing shape my days as I juggle several projects. These efforts have connected me with remarkable artists and authors in many genres. Our conversations reveal how vibrant and generous the creative community is. Soon, I'll travel to Chicago to meet some of these people in person and finally share some real, unhurried time together—an experience I eagerly anticipate.

Away from the page, life keeps its own steady rhythm. Piper’s walks and playdates bring bursts of joy, while Lulu’s long cuddle sessions remind me how much comfort there is in stillness. Both rescues continue to blossom in their own ways; witnessing their growing trust and confidence gently balances the energy of my creative pursuits.

All these moments create a season defined by gratitude, expressed through creativity and connection for what is and what will be. 

Audible Haunting

Instruments of the Macabre

Certain instruments seem to stand at music's boundary: the cello, oboe, bassoon, and pipe organ are examples. Their voices create a feeling linking the physical act of playing to emotional intensity. Even when playing happy-sounding music, they produce an uneasy effect. This is not only because of their association with mourning or horror, but also because of how our bodies react. The body receives tense sounds as sensory information and turns them into physical emotions through the nervous system.

Sound is pressure moving through matter. Each tone vibrates through the air, skin, and the inner ear before reaching the brain. Low sounds can excite the vagus nerve and cause a deep body response. High-pitched dissonance can trigger warnings in the brain and stress hormones. When the oboe plays slightly sharp against the strings, the body senses imbalance before the mind understands. The idea of the "macabre" is not only aesthetic. It is also biological: our cells listen as deeply as our minds.

Yet within this unease, there is a strange attraction. Instruments that disturb our balance remind us that we respond to vibrations. The cello’s somber sound echoes the shape of the human chest, while the oboe’s reed resembles the texture of breath. In their discord, we sense our own nature, with its mix of harmony and tension within the body.

What we call the macabre may be the body remembering its thresholds—where sound becomes sensation, where harmony and horror share a frequency.

Living Ancestors: Walking with Wisdom

Honoring the Guides Who Shape Our Paths

When we think of “ancestors,” it’s easy to imagine only those who have passed on. We picture family lines stretching back through time, or cultural figures whose stories helped shape the world we now live in. Yet there’s another layer to ancestry that is often overlooked: our Living Ancestors.

Living Ancestors may be people of blood, such as elders in our families whose wisdom has been gathered through decades of lived experience. They may also be teachers, mentors, artists, activists, or community members whose influence has guided our choices, shaped our values, and inspired our steps along the path. Some we know personally. Others we’ve never met, but their words, their creations, and their lives have left an imprint on ours.

For a long time, I assumed that “ancestor” meant older. The word itself carries the weight of lineage, time, and the long arc of life. But then I realized something that shifted my understanding: Living Ancestors can also be younger than we are. A child who sees the world with fresh eyes, a student who asks the unanswerable question, or a younger colleague whose bravery sparks change—all can embody the ancestral role of showing us new ways forward. Ancestry is not just about age; it is about impact. Sometimes those who come after us illuminate truths we were not yet able to see.

Acknowledging our Living Ancestors, whether older or younger, is an act of both gratitude and awareness. It grounds us in the truth that we are not moving through life alone. Nor are we creating in a vacuum. Every path we walk has been opened, cleared, or expanded by someone before us or beside us. They may not have walked the exact same road, but their courage, curiosity, or resilience made space for ours.

This recognition changes how we navigate our present. It can remind us to walk with humility, knowing we inherit strengths and struggles alike. It can also help us cultivate discernment, learning from what worked, what failed, and what still needs tending. By honoring our Living Ancestors, we acknowledge that our growth is relational. We become part of a lineage of story, creativity, and transformation that continues to unfold. 

Practical ways to begin:

• Name them. Speak or write the names of those who have influenced your journey, whether they share your DNA or not.

• Notice across generations. Look for the wisdom and influence not only in your elders, but also in those younger who may be carrying new light.

• Share their stories. Tell others how their work or example has shaped you. This keeps their contributions alive and relevant.

• Practice gratitude. A simple ritual of thanks—silent or spoken—honors the connections that sustain you.

• Engage with their presence. Let their guidance, challenges, and inspiration actively inform the way you live today.

Recognizing our Living Ancestors is not simply about honoring the past or shaping the future. It is about acknowledging the ongoing influence, guidance, and conversation that surrounds us in every moment. Their presence is woven into the paths we walk, the choices we make, and the ways we relate to the world. In this way, our lives become a shared story, continuously written with those who have walked beside us, those who walk with us now, and those who inspire us from unexpected places.

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Dill is a Vibe

Dill Is a Vibe

Who knew dill could be a full-on mood, setting the tone for silliness and surprise? Not just the herb, but the entire dill universe captures a tangy, quirky energy that transforms ordinary moments. My friend and I recently tumbled down a delightfully ridiculous rabbit hole of all things dill, and let me tell you, that unique vibe shaped the whole adventure.

It began with the Mystical Pickle divination toy—because why not let a plastic gherkin decide fate? Then roasted vegetables, drizzled with cool yogurt dill sauce—creamy, herb-bright, almost clarifying, as if dill itself whispered: see clearly, laugh more, and fortune will follow.

Next came dill sea salt from a tiny Pacific Northwest island—it turned a tomato slice into alchemy. Amazing dill pickle–flavored potato chips? Yes! Discovered thanks to a grizzled sailor at the marina, squinting at the tide, who divulged which brand was worth my salt. He was right.

As if the universe wanted to join in, I overheard a Norwegian visitor describe a UAP as "a fat dill pickle hovering in the sky." Dill becomes a metaphor for the unfamiliar, sneaking into stories, snacks, and figures of speech for the unexplainable.

But here’s the real magic: it wasn’t just about dill. It was about laughter, serendipity, and saying yes to the absurd. About leaning into childlike wonder, following the tangy trail wherever it led, and savoring how delight can appear when you least expect it.

So here’s your invitation: find your dill—whether it’s actually dill or your own version of unexpected joy. Let it serve as a metaphor for playfulness and curiosity. Season your days with clarity and good fortune, and remember, wonder waits for anyone willing to taste it.

Visiting American Prophets

 

Visiting American Prophets: Anticipation

Later this autumn, I will travel to Chicago to visit the American Writers Museum. Their upcoming exhibit, American Prophets: Writers, Religion, and Culture, gathers those whose work has traced the numinous in American life. These are writers who reach beyond doctrine to reveal the divine in story and the extraordinary in the ordinary. They also search out the questions that live beneath belief. Among them is Rachel Pollack.

To see her name among such voices stirs awe. Rachel’s presence feels both inevitable and astonishing. She translated mysteries through Tarot, myth, and human transformation, making the invisible tangible. Her fiction and essays combined scholarly precision with imaginative daring, expanding literature’s scope. She insisted that curiosity and wonder belong in serious discourse and believed the spiritual resides within each of us. For her, the strange was often our truest mirror.

When I think of her as an American Prophet, I see her work in dialogue with other seekers. Baldwin’s moral clarity and his Christian language exploring queer spirituality come to mind. I recall the mythic worlds of Ursula K. Le Guin and N. K. Jemisin, and the visionary tension of Flannery O’Connor. I’m also reminded of Matthew Kirby’s luminous search, his atmospheric stories exploring truth and identity in mystery and history. Still, Rachel’s voice is distinct. Her spiritual imagination was not nostalgic or ornamental; it was revelatory. She spoke to the lived experience of belief, showing its ecstasies and wounds, and revealing its power to rebuild identity from within.

Her inclusion feels personal. I knew Rachel as a mentor and friend, her curiosity inseparable from her kindness. Her work reminds me that story is a living practice and that the sacred is not elsewhere but near, waiting to be seen. 

It humbles me to know that a small piece of my writing about Rachel will live within that space. I can almost hear her laugh at the symmetry of it all. That bright, knowing laugh dissolved any sense of hierarchy, placing us on the same field of discovery. If she were here, she would tell me to take it in fully and urge me to let the amazement be real.

Standing there, I imagine I will feel the familiar tug between awe and disbelief. That is the same tension she taught me to hold with grace. In that moment, surrounded by the words of so many who have sought meaning through story, I will think of her voice rising among them. It will be sure and clear, reminding me that revelation is rarely grand. It happens quietly, in the rooms where we finally recognize we belong.

Learn more about the American Writers Museum: https://americanwritersmuseum.org/

Archaeology of the Soul

The sun beat down at Taposiris Magna. Dr. Kathleen Martínez brushed away the final soil. Alabaster emerged beneath her fingers and glowed in the heat. It is Cleopatra. Only eight representations are known. Here, centuries later, she looked out from the earth with the same dignity and presence that commanded empires. Even in fragments, she reshapes how we imagine the past and what endures.

Watching an archaeologist work is to witness patience with time. For decades, Dr. Martínez has sifted through earth, architecture, and speculation. She remains focused on one question: what stays and where. These field moments show that meaning is rarely on the surface. Each brushstroke, note, and pause has value.

This pursuit mirrors an excavation within ourselves. Just as the archaeologist peels back earth layer by layer, we examine the inner strata of memory, silence, ritual, and loss. Using harsh judgment is like striking with a pick—damaging rather than revealing. Instead, gentleness and patience shed light on hidden truths, allowing us to trace subtle impressions that may connect, or not. As in archaeology, what is overlooked at first may prove valuable, and our imperfections often hold deep meaning.

The methods differ, but the mindset aligns. Tarot spreads become maps of emotional inquiry, journals function as logs of discoveries, and dreams serve as chambers hiding personal truths. Each yields fragments that, when assembled, form a detailed landscape of the inner world.

What we uncover is rarely pristine. Some layers hold light, moments that shine. Others yield rubble: grief, broken promises, survival’s compromises. Yet every fragment matters. The soul is not a smooth surface. It is a living site where ruins and relics coexist. Every shadow and shard shows endurance.

We may never understand our own depths. Cleopatra’s burial may never be found. Yet the search changes us. Beneath the sunbaked earth, beneath memory and silence, something endures. It waits for a careful hand and an attentive eye. We must be willing to keep excavating. Each small discovery shows what can persist.