Where the last house keeps its dead, its dreams, and its wildest flowers.
Selected verses, kept like pressed flowers between older pages.
Mixed-media studies in ink, thorn, and gold leaf — the visual residue of the same inner work as the poems.
Whatever I am turning over lately. Sometimes that means the symbols hidden in ordinary days and what they might be saying; sometimes a book or poem I cannot stop thinking about; sometimes a short story, or a small moment from my own life and what it came to mean.
Inner alchemy is the old art of turning what wounds us into what illuminates us — base matter into gold, grief into wisdom. I hold space for fellow travelers doing this work, through ritual, reflection, and the kind of honesty that asks something of you.
One-on-one guidance for your own descent and return.
A small group gathering with the cycles of the moon.
A self-paced path through the fundamentals of the work.
New poems, studio notes and moon-phase reflections — sent when there is something worth saying, never more.