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•Portland, OR• 503.284.1726
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So today’s my birthday. 43. Feels like a number cut from granite.

Woke up, slugged three coffees, made a bed that’s not mine, meditated terribly, then walked along yellowing, grizzly-pocked wildlands that skirt Yellowstone. 

Can’t wait to see what comes this year. Because last year? Last year was…a lot. 

At 42, I watched thousands of snow geese fly home at sunup days before watching my mother die, her pulse flown home. I walked north-to-south across Sicily with a ring in my pocket and asked my beloved to marry me. My car got hit. Climbed Mount Hood and ate peanut-butter-bird’s-eye-pepper sandwiches with Robert Macfarlane. Ran a 50K on nothing but one single apple fritter. Slept in the dirt deep in Utah canyon country, the Bitterroots, the Sawtooths. Taught writing on Aldo Leopold’s land in WI and at Orion’s environmental workshop in NY. Traveled to the Himalaya, Ladakh, for a story with Patagonia that I can’t hardly wait to share with you. Sat on a panel at the Brooklyn Book Festival. Joined a board. Won a book award. Launched a paperback (fall tour above, come say hello and share with your networks, will you?). Gave up coffee. Came back to coffee, begging. Set a free library in concrete outside my house and now creep daily on the give-and-take of each passersby.
 
I grew. I got absolutely crushed. I grew some more.
 
Humbled, quieted, closer to the bone.
 
Here we are. Ready for you, 43. Mentoring with granite this round.

(And yes, I own a Carl Jung action figure. šŸ¤“)
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