The Aquifer of Creativity

It is tempting to look at a multi-faceted creative life and see it as a house divided into distinct, closed-off rooms. But the truth is, these rooms are connected, and what feeds one also feeds the others. Over here is the desk where the manuscript editing happens, a podcast is planned, and multiple writing projects sit in various stages of progress. Down the hall is the quiet space reserved for laying out a spread of cards, losing myself in the translation of an old language, or taking pencil to paper for a drawing session. Tucked away in another corner are the meticulous archival files of a legacy I am helping to preserve. There was a time it felt like stepping into one room required firmly shutting the door on the others, as if giving energy to the archive meant stealing it from the blog or a book review.

The creative subconscious doesn’t recognize walls. Instead, it operates more like an underground aquifer, a single massive body of water feeding every well I dig. So when I lower my bucket into one practice, I am invariably drawing up the lifeblood of another.

Consider the sheer physical ritual of laying down words or lines. There is a distinct metaphysics at play in the tactile experience of a crafted nib meeting the smooth surface of a Clairefontaine or Tomoe page, or in the sweep of a graphite sketch coming to life. Watching the ink flow from a Jinhao or Montblanc pen isn’t just a mechanism for recording thought;

It is a grounding ritual. The deliberate pacing required by the physical act of writing or drawing slows my racing mind, acting as a bridge between the chaotic hum of daily life and the deeper, quieter realms of the subconscious.

By engaging so deeply in this one sensory, creative avenue, a door is unlocked. The physical artistry of the tools primes the mind for the metaphysical act of exploration.

Once that door is open, the currents begin to cross. The meditative state achieved through the tactile act of writing or drawing naturally opens my mind to broader reflections on life, making it the perfect vessel for exploring archetypal imagery.

When I study a card layout, parse the syntax of a Latin phrase, or sketch a visual concept, I am not just looking at pictures, dead words, or simple shapes. I am engaging with the oldest narratives of the human experience. These images and ancient structures, steeped in myth and universal truths, begin a silent conversation with the writer and artist within.

The visual and the esoteric feed the narrative. Working through the meticulous details of biographical manuscripts, balancing the distinct voices of multiple writing projects, or piecing together a literary archive demands a rigid focus. Yet the mythic symbols and intuitive leaps I practice in divination inevitably bleed into my understanding of a writer’s life and legacy. In turn, the archetypes provide the framework and the emotional gravity, while the physical act of writing distills that abstract imagery into tangible, relatable meaning. One cannot exist in its fullest form without the other.

This is the beautiful alchemy of the creative life.

When I feel stuck on an essay or a project, the solution is rarely to force more words. Often, the answer lies in stepping into a different room of my mind’s creative house. I study a symbol, I draw, I uncap a different pen, I immerse myself in the folklore of another era, or I return to the archives. I feed the subconscious through a different avenue, trusting that it will carry that new energy right back to the well I am trying to draw from.

Ultimately, there are no isolated creative acts. Every pen stroke, every sketched line, every study of symbol or language, and every moment spent reflecting on the broader mysteries of life contribute to the same great river. When I allow my diverse passions to cross-pollinate and support one another, I not only become a better creator but also a more integrated, deeply connected participant in the ongoing story of the world.

Reading the Under Currents

 Pride, Feminist Press, and the Living Memory of Rachel Pollack

June brings a familiar surge of visibility—rainbow flags in windows, curated playlists, and broad, predictable mapping of queer history. For those who see identity as an ongoing ritual, the real celebration lies in the undercurrents, within texts that deliver complex narratives and challenge self-perception. 

This Pride Month, I’m drawn to a vital architect of queer space: Feminist Press. For decades, they’ve published provocative and fierce literature, igniting movements and social transformation. Believing everyone should see themselves represented, they uplift insurgent and marginalized voices to build a just future. They preserve radical thought, providing enduring space for those who need to be heard.

Unearthing A Secret Woman

I’m personally excited by a major literary reclamation ahead: The Feminist Press will reprint Rachel Pollack’s 2002 mystery, A Secret Woman.

“Pairing iconic author Rachel Pollack’s ahead-of-its-time 2002 mystery with contemporary commentary…this reissue reveals a strange, specific transfeminine world of the past that remains fresh and relevant today.” ~ Feminist Press

For many, Rachel Pollack is revered—a brilliant mind whose work serves as a foundation for those seeking deeper wisdom in symbols and archetypes. She saw the world as living mythology, charting paths through the unknown with clarity and grace.

A Secret Woman marks a distinct pivot in her bibliography. It takes a classic police procedural and infuses it with personal transfeminine truth. The novel’s detective faces corporate intrigue and impossible crimes while guarding a wall of deep secrets. As it cracks, a profound journey into identity and desire begins, reflecting Pollack’s own experience as a trans woman.

Weaving Generations of Dialogue

What makes this January 2027 edition special is Feminist Press’s choice to frame it as a living dialogue, with new supplements from three contemporary authors.

• Cat Fitzpatrick (author of The Call-Out and co-editor of Meanwhile, Elsewhere)
• Roby Gigl (celebrated crime novelist, Nothing But the Truth and Survivor’s Guilt)
• Roz Kavaney (legendary activist, critic, and poet; author of Tiny Pieces of Skull and the fantasy series Rhapsody of Blood)

By pairing Pollack’s prose with contemporary insights, the collection bridges generations of trans literary history. It honors those who carved out space in more hostile times, showing how their words echo in modern voices.

Expanding the Scope of Our Reading

When seeking wisdom in our personal libraries, being intentional matters. Stories are the structures through which we trace human experience. Excluding queer and trans authors leaves the major arcana unread—missing the deep insights gained outside conventional boundaries.

Feminist Press knows that protecting these stories is an act of resistance and preservation. This June, let’s look beyond the surface, support independent presses that keep radical histories alive, and read texts that teach us to live authentically.

Support Radical Publishing

Feminist Press is hosting its annual Pride Month sale—an ideal time to expand your reading and explore its catalog. Enjoy 30% off, including pre-orders such as A Secret Woman.

To take advantage of the sale, go directly to the Feminist Press website using the link below. Browse their catalog, including the short stories and radical fiction, and select your titles—remember to pre-order A Secret Woman if interested. At checkout, enter the code PRIDE26 to receive your 30% discount.

The Feminist Press

"THE FEMINIST PRESS publishes groundbreaking literary fiction, sci-fi and fantasy, activist nonfiction, hybrid memoirs and biographies, anthologies, and literature in translation. Our feminism is anti-racist, anti-capitalist, anti-imperial, and decolonial, and we express it not only through what we publish but through our practices of solidarity."

Note: I have no official tie to Feminist Press and receive no sponsorship. I’m simply an enthusiastic reader, grateful for their ethics and catalog, and eager to celebrate Rachel’s legacy.

The Souls Beside Us

 

Animals, Presence, and Connection

As a lifelong animal lover, the connection I have with them, whether they are those directly under my guardianship or those I encounter only tangentially, is a fundamental part of my soul's makeup. This bond is built on a subtle, vibrating presence that far exceeds the clinical explanations of biological instinct. While it is easy (for some) to view these creatures through the lens of utility or simple companionship, a closer look reveals a shared, unseen architecture of the heart. This connection isn't just a byproduct of living together; it is a profound resonance where two entirely different ways of being find a common language. When you sit in the sun with a dog, watch a bird track the invisible shifts in the air, or notice a horse rotating its ears forward and back as it forages through a grassy field, you aren't simply observing an animal; you are participating in a mutual recognition that exists long before words ever enter the picture. 

There is a beautiful, tangible foundation for this feeling in the way our bodies react to one another. Science has begun to map this through the study of heart-rate variability alignment, showing that when we share a moment of genuine trust with an animal--whether it is the trusting lean of a horse or the rhythmic purr of a cat--our cardiac rhythms actually begin to sync up. Our bodies act as resonators, catching the other's emotional frequency. It is a metabolic conversation, a deep-tissue warmth that proves we are designed to connect with the "other" in ways that the intellect alone cannot grasp.

By inviting an animal into our inner circle, we often begin an archeology of our own souls, unearthing parts of ourselves that have been tucked away under the pressures of the modern world. Because animals do not care about titles or resumes, they act as a mirror for our most honest, primal states. A bond with an animal asks us to drop the performance and simply be. This is what philosophers call the "I-Thou" relationship. It is a reciprocal, heart-centered meeting based on presence that transitions us from seeing an animal as something we own or as a commodity to seeing it as a soul we are fortunate enough to encounter.

Ultimately, the metaphysics of this connection is about a return to wholeness. In a world that often feels fractured and digital, the animal is a grounding force that pulls us back to the unseen architecture of the living world. They are the keepers of a silent, steady wisdom, reminding us that the deepest intimacy doesn't require a single spoken word. This quiet dialogue is the true heart of the bond, a gentle reminder that we are all woven into the same breathing tapestry, leaning on one another for warmth and understanding.

In Your Hands

 A Kid's Guide to Palmistry

A masterful blend of charm and accessibility, P.V. Dai’s In Your Hands is far more than a children’s book. It is a masterclass in inclusive design. Published by Moon Dust Press (Red Wheel/Weiser), this guide breathes fresh life into an ancient, revelatory divination art. 

While the "kid-friendly" tag is accurate, the book’s true magic lies in its thoughtful production. The generous white space, intentional kerning, and clear typography—paired with Elissa Marie’s playful, vibrant illustrations—create a welcoming experience for those with reading impediments and adults seeking a stress-free introduction to palmistry.

Whether you are a curious beginner or a seasoned practitioner, this is a delightful, high-utility reference that earns a permanent spot on any metaphysical bookshelf. A joyful, tactile treasure!

Emerging Patterns

Tarot Tableau Revolution: A Breakthrough System to See the Whole Story in Your Readings

Maria Alviz Hernando (Weiser Books, 2025)

There is a moment in Tarot Tableau when the cards shed stillness and become agents in a field of meaning. Maria Alvin Hernando presents several approaches to large spreads, each with its own logic. The “Knighting” technique, common with the Grand Tableau in Lenormand, introduces deliberate motion into the reading.

The name comes from the knight’s move in chess—a unique L-shaped step. It breaks linear patterns. With a 3x3 (9-card) tableau or larger grid, the reader traces angular paths among the cards. The pattern determines sequence and connections. What emerges is patterned movement: structured yet open. It is a choreography of attention that uncovers hidden links.

I shared this method at a Tarot gathering, expecting a reserved response. Instead, it sparked instant engagement. The group leaned in; voices overlapped, hands hovered over the cards, and fingers traced patterns. As interpretations multiplied, connections emerged. Participants explored variations, shifting the point of origin and observing how each traversal shaped the narrative. What seemed a fixed arrangement of symbols became a dynamic network; the diagram shifted from static spread to living system.

Building on this, in Hernando’s work, “Knighting” reframes the spread as a network rather than just a layout. Cards communicate across distance. Meanings are built through movement. The reader navigates a system of relations unfolding over time rather than extracting information from isolated positions.

A similar feeling echoes in Rachel Pollack’s approach to Tarot. She wrote, “That’s the thing. You never get to the end of it.” The statement is humble and inviting. Each shuffle reshapes the field. Each method gives a new entry, with no single path exhausting the deck.

Within this context, “Knighting” is one powerful approach among many. It doesn’t define a tableau’s meaning, but creates conditions for meaning to develop. The reader observes, follows, and participates in that process.

What struck me most was the group’s transformation with the cards. Curiosity replaced certainty; play supplanted hesitation. The seventy-eight cards became terrain they were eager to explore.

Tarot Tableau offers a range of entry points. The “Knighting” technique is thoughtfully applied and is insightfully generative. It restores movement to the act of reading. It reminds the reader that card interpretations expand beyond the lines in a “little white book.”

Beneath the Text

 

The Alchemy of the Blurb

There is a particular kind of reading that demands more than attention; it requires a deep presence, because it seeks to recognize and illuminate the soul of a book. By 'deep presence,' I mean reading with a quiet mind and a heightened receptivity, where you are attentive not only to the words but also to the subtle energy and intention behind them. For those new to this approach, a simple way to cultivate deep presence is to begin each reading session with a pause: take a few slow breaths before opening the book, letting distractions fall away. This small ritual helps you enter a state where you can truly meet the work as it is.

Recently, I have become involved in writing endorsements for esoteric and metaphysical books. These works come from authors at different stages: some veterans, others sharing their first, uncertain offering, each carrying a voice waiting to be heard.

What surprises me most is not the reading itself, though that is often rich and transporting. Instead, it is the act of distillation that follows that draws my attention. This means identifying the qualities that give the work its unique life and finding a way to convey that to future readers. Distillation is less about capturing every detail and more about noticing what most wants to be seen, then offering it clearly and simply.

An endorsement is a small space. A few sentences, perhaps a paragraph. It cannot contain the whole of a book, nor should it try. Instead, it asks a quieter question: where does this work come alive? Where does it open?

For example, an endorsement might read: "This book is a lantern for those journeying inward, offering gentle wisdom and unexpected clarity at every turn. The author's voice is both attentive and courageous, inviting the reader to discover new depths within themselves."

To answer that, I listen differently. I am reading for the current beneath the text, the intention shaping it, the moment the author’s voice settles into authority. Sometimes this is immediate; sometimes it unfolds slowly, deeper in the work.

There is a kind of trust involved. The author trusts me to see them clearly. I trust the work to reveal its center.

A good endorsement does not decorate a book. It recognizes that the reader is not yet inside these pages, saying with conviction, "There is life here." You may be changed by it.

With first-time authors, the responsibility takes on a different tone. Their work often holds a rawness, an unguarded clarity. There is less shaping toward expectation, more willingness to speak from the interior. The task then becomes one of honoring that clarity without softening it, without translating it into safer language. One useful strategy is to echo some of the author's distinctive phrasing or imagery in your endorsement, letting their original voice come through. For example, if the manuscript contains a particularly striking metaphor or turn of phrase, consider weaving a reference to it into your message. This approach reassures the author that their unique expression matters and invites future readers to experience the book's authentic spirit. It deserves to stand as it is.

When working with seasoned authors, however, the challenge shifts. Their voices are often more layered, more deliberate. The question becomes how to articulate what distinguishes this work from all that has come before it, how to recognize the evolution without reducing it to a summary of past accomplishments. One useful technique is to identify a new motif, perspective, or stylistic departure that signals growth or change in the author's voice. I look for moments in the text where the author takes a risk, explores a new theme, or approaches a familiar subject from a fresh angle. By highlighting these shifts, an endorsement can point future readers to the specific qualities that set this work apart, while still honoring the depth and continuity of the author’s journey.

In both cases, I return to the same practice: first, I read until I feel the spark; then, I write from that place.

There is a simple joy: sitting with a manuscript before it enters the world, witnessing its moment before meeting readers, and offering words to help guide it toward those meant to find it.

It feels, in its own way, like tending a series of small flames.

Each book arrives with its own light. My role is to reveal and steady that light so others can see it clearly.

In a world that moves quickly past what it does not immediately understand, this feels like a necessary act. A quiet one. A deliberate one.

And, for me, a deeply satisfying way to give my time.

Echoes Beneath My Feet

The night before a trip crackles with anticipation. The suitcase gapes open on the bed. The cat narrows its eyes as my mind speeds ahead down shadowed highways. Maps surface everywhere: in my notes app, checklists, daydreams.

Tomorrow I leave the West Coast for the East. A passion project calls, but my ancestors’ spirits are the true draw.

Officially, this is a research trip: meetings, libraries, notes, and places to explore. I’ll move slowly through archives and streets, noticing details others might miss. But the professional side is just part of the story.

Beyond practical reasons, something personal pulls me. As a child, my grandmother showed me an old photo of our family home back east, tracing the porch where relatives gathered. Her voice softened when she spoke of the lilacs that bloomed every spring. That memory lingers. Now, I follow it back, searching for stories that began there.

The East Coast is where my ancestors lived, worked, prayed, raised families, and buried loved ones. They planted gardens that may still hold memories. My great-grandfather Frantisek kept bees behind a small red house, gathering honey under apple trees. Before I traveled far, he and others walked those roads.

And now, picking up where their journeys left off, I’m heading back across the country to walk those roads again.

I grew up believing places are more than locations. Land preserves memories. Houses hold voices. Even towns that have changed over decades reveal traces of former lives.

That’s why research trips feel singular. The day begins with notebooks, archives, and meetings. Somewhere between scaling library stairs and sitting by café windows, something shifts—a familiar name in a ledger, a street identified from an old photo. Suddenly, the past feels closer.

For me, this trip feels like a mix of planning and pilgrimage, guided as much by lists as by memory. The line blurs between what is scheduled and what is felt.

There will be schedules: places to visit, notes to keep me on track. But I look forward to wandering neighborhoods at dusk, catching the local accent, noticing how East Coast light differs from the Pacific’s.

It’s a contrast I keep returning to: the West Coast teaches about horizons. The East Coast teaches about layers.

Here, the land stretches wide and open, stories still unfolding. In contrast, back east, everything is layered, with centuries pressed into a few miles. You sense it in granite buildings, old oaks, and streets that spiral around history.

Somewhere in those layers, I imagine, are the people whose choices led to me sitting here tonight, choosing which notebook to pack.

I often wonder what my ancestors would think. Airplanes, digital maps, crossing the country in a day: inconceivable. Most never left home, so their astonishment is easy to imagine. Traversing distances that once felt insurmountable—leaving so much behind so swiftly—must have been extraordinary. Some might feel pride or curiosity, knowing that someone generations later will seek the stories they cherished, while others might feel gentle sorrow for all that’s vanished. Still, I hope they’d understand: the longing that draws us back endures, even as all changes.

This trip continues what they started. Families move and spread, but sometimes, like now, someone follows the thread back, reconnecting the past with the present.

Tomorrow I’ll cross the country with a backpack of notebooks and questions. There will be archives to explore, planning sessions, and long walks through new streets. Along the way, I may realize I’m standing where an ancestor once stood, though I may never know the exact spot.

But, regardless of precision, the land will know.

If I pay close attention, maybe I’ll sense the echo of their treads beneath mine.