Every so often I stop and ask myself why I write any of this at all. Why put private questions into public language? Why offer up my changing thoughts about religion, spirit, and the many worlds I move through? I know that writing about belief can make someone look like a teacher—or worse, like the start of a tiny church with a mailing list. That isn’t what I’m doing here.
I write to understand what I believe. I share it because some people like to read, and sometimes another person’s thinking helps your own thinking take a breath. That’s the whole thing.
What you’ll find in these essays isn’t doctrine. It’s living thought: notes from the road, the way the sky looked on one particular night, a concept that clicked into place for a while, the shape of a prayer I was able to hold that day. Tomorrow I might see it differently. I reserve the right to change my mind, contradict myself, and come back to a paragraph with a better question than the one I left there.
I don’t write from authority. I write from study, experience, and curiosity—books on the table, conversations in the kitchen, the kind of quiet that lets you hear what’s been waiting to be said. Some of what I share comes from sources, stories, and traditions older than me. Some of it is simply what I have noticed when I pay attention. I try to be careful and specific about what I’ve read versus what I’ve concluded. If I ever fail at that, it’s an error of craft, not a hidden agenda.
A lot of us think best when someone else might read our thoughts. There’s a pressure to be honest when the words will leave the room. Publishing is how I keep myself honest. It makes me check my terms, define my metaphors, and ask: do I actually believe this, and under what conditions? The internet, for all its noise, is also a river. We leave words in it and they drift; sometimes they land somewhere useful. If something I write helps you name what you already sensed, or helps you disagree with more precision, I’m glad it passed your way.
Because this is spiritual writing, let me say the obvious part out loud: I am not recruiting anyone. I don’t want followers, students, or anyone’s surrender. Autonomy matters to me. Your beliefs belong to you; they come from your own encounters, practices, inheritances, refusals, and experiments. If anything in my work nudges you, let it nudge you back toward your own authority—toward your capacity to notice, to choose, to consent, to say no. If something here doesn’t fit, leave it right where you found it. Nothing in these pages requires agreement.
The world I try to describe is layered. I believe in plural Heavens and multiple kinds of place—material, spiritual, and beyond-spiritual—interleaved in ways our senses sometimes catch and sometimes miss. My writing is a record of how I’ve come to see that plurality, not an attempt to flatten it into one rulebook. When I describe a practice or a presence, I’m marking my coordinates, not giving directions. Another path might run alongside mine for a while and then peel off toward a different horizon. That’s fine. That’s expected.
Think of this site as a living hall. The door is open. There are rooms you can step into—a small essay with a window, a longer piece with chairs you can drag around, a corridor of notes pinned and crossed out. You can wander, linger, and leave without signing anything on your way out. If you notice a detail I missed, or if something I’ve written hums next to something you know, you’re welcome to tell me. I like conversation. I like when ideas pass a cup back and forth.
If you’re new here, a few ways to read that might help:
- Take what resonates and ignore the rest. You are not the wrong shape for my words; my words are simply not always the right shape for you.
- Expect updates. Belief, like weather, changes while you sleep. I may revise posts, add notes, or write a follow-up that argues with an earlier version of me.
- Treat citations as invitations. If I mention a source, it’s because it gave me something. Follow it if you’re curious about where my thought comes from; don’t if you’re not.
- Read slowly if you can. Some of this is better as a walk than a sprint.
I know there’s a risk, any time someone writes about spirit, that readers will look for the podium and the steps leading up to it. There isn’t one here. If I sound confident sometimes, it’s because clarity feels good when it arrives. If I sound unsure sometimes, it’s because uncertainty is honest. Both belong. Neither is a command.
What I hope this place offers is companionship more than instruction—company for the road, language for the in-between, a reminder that you’re allowed to change your mind and keep going. If you want names for what you’ve felt at the edge of your days, I hope a few of mine are useful placeholders until you find your own. If you want permission, I hope you remember you don’t need it from me.
Thank you for reading, for as long as you want to walk through this hall with me. These essays are footprints, not a map. If they lead you anywhere, let it be back to your own door—with the key you already had, and a little more light to see by.