Selected Writings

I’m not a butterfly or a rare bird. I’m something elegant and small. I left my wings behind in the dirt. I had to learn to fly before I could learn to crawl.


It felt like a rebirth, except I did not emerge with vibrant, patterned wings, delicately renewed by goo. No, I emerged as a worm. I searched for a way to float above the dirt, only to find myself coated in a slimy layer of skin. I must have left behind my wings in the mud.

“Spirituality of Mud”