After travelling outward, I keep returning within: to change, choice, and the person still taking shape.
Into open water, across snow, and through new forms of movement, voice, and rhythm: each departure lets the world open a little wider.
A city's wind, old light, a shared meal, or a thought still unfinished: fleeting moments written down before they disappear.
Between Tides
I return to the sea because it never rushes to offer an answer. It can be luminous or unsettled, drawing the eye toward distance while returning the body to this breath, this current, this moment.
Diving, movement, travel, music, and writing may look like different paths. For me, they are one practice: meeting the unknown with respect, giving full attention to what is here, and keeping a little freedom alive while everything changes.
Some stories begin far away; others appear in the space of a single turn. Each starts with a particular moment, then opens quietly into something larger.
A humid walk through Taipei returns an old film, a vanished promise, and the thought that the person we await may already live within.
At Hamilton in New York, an unfinished promise from a Shanghai night returns through light, music, and a colour lost to time.
A return to an old campus, where the difficult beginnings and ordinary tenderness of youth meet again.