August 4, 2026

i already miss the retreat
the people
and filling my life with art
and theatre
in a way i haven’t since
performing arts camps in
days long gone by

there is a loss of worry about time
when one is out in the woods
with only other artists around
[i know this would likely change
if i were the one scheduling everything,
but as a participant and not an
organizer, it’s a gorgeous experience,
not checking my phone every two seconds,
not analyzing exactly how long i have before i need to
finish something
start something else
run to the train
run to the gym
run to everything else i have going on…
because we are all a short walk away from each other
it doesn’t feel nearly
as hectic
and high stakes]

the stakes are all
in the script
and the acting

[and we can forget for all of two seconds
the stakes in the rest of our
falling-apart world]

August 2, 2026

storytelling

connection

theatre art community

these words hold purpose
and so much more meaning
than a mere poem can give them
[and perhaps a mere weekend]

but damn…

damn.

August 1, 2026

the coyotes howl
and yip
and screech a bit
and there’s definitely more than three or four of them
and i’ve never experienced coyotes in a group, the
extent of my wild sighting(s) was
mangy
sick
solitary
scrounging around
barely alive
barely surviving
i thought the first one was a
sickly domesticated dog, until i described it to my dad
and he said
“coyote.
definitely.”

but these seemed wild and vital and collective
and though we howled back
[probably stupidly, as humans do]
we just wanted to hear them
again and again and again
for it was something few of us had ever experienced before
and might never again
and i hope nature is healing in ways
we might not be able to even see, because we are observing
[almost]
every
single
way
we’re fucking it up,
and having hope would be
fucking fantastic for my mental health
and for the physical health of
literally every living being on the planet
and the planet itself
so i hope for hope
which, definitionally is a hope itself
and in this moment it was sparked by the first wild howl
of a family of coyotes
i have ever
ever
ever heard

July 31, 2026

the nose feels the cold first
breathing in the chill air
where it warms in my lungs
huddled up with my other
bodily organs, tucked and blanketed
by sinew and blood and skin and
pajamas and sheets and blankets
even the near inch of hair on my head
is enough to protect the skull from feeling
the crispness of the air, and the cheeks flushed
half tucked in a pillow, hands huddled underneath,
but the nose is the most exposed
and it tells the rest of the body how it will feel in
a few minutes when we finally
face the reality of
the outside of the bed

and it tells us
be prepared
to feel as close to frozen
as one can in the summer
in a barn in
pennsylvania

August 6, 2025

still on the high from the retreat

trying to connect with my own creative vibe
outside of all the wonderful folks
i got to know
over three long/short days

i think [my] lesson of the retreat is:
everyone has such different methods of storytelling
and modes of writing
and even within one person there are
worlds and citizens and characters and genres
and everyone listening is so, so supportive

i think i may be able to bring something
next year

[better start writing/planning
now!]

[and that is the first time that has felt exciting
and daunting
rather than daunting and a laborious struggle]

August 4, 2025

perhaps

in order to avoid the trappings
of first-time writings

[the “mary sue” the self-insertion
the romanticized tragedy
the not-flawed-enough protagonists
and too-flawed antagonists
and cursorily researched science
and all things i’d judge or freeze stagnant
when viewing in my own writing]

i simply need to go after them,
on purpose even,

and indulge.

August 2, 2025

how quickly we get used to things —
lack of sleep
un-flavored coffee
living in the woods
being around people

and how quickly we end up missing it
when, inevitably, events end

what i’m trying to say is
i miss this retreat
already

August 1, 2025

i often forget
that the sounds of the birds
can be my morning page music
and the crickets and wind and rain
can replace my podcasts

i no longer use perpetual sound
to block out my own inner voice

[that sounds like some kind of growth]

but i think i have now found myself using any auditory distractions
as literal distractions
from boredom

and i do wish i was more on board
being bored
for creativity’s sake

July 31, 2025

there’s something i know about myself
that others may not

it’s that i can always find a bright side
as long as i’m sharing the story with
someone else

got lost on a path i didn’t know well?
i got the opportunity to see bunnies and deer and one cat and two horses
and enjoy nature in a way i haven’t since
i grew up in middle of nowhere ohio

stumbled upon some uneven ground?
i am reminding myself of my rural roots
clambering over rocks and holes and
hopefully not twisting my ankle
like when i was an awkward teen

didn’t sleep well the first night of a retreat?
honestly, i’m getting back to my roots once more
adolescence
and early adulthood
and never sleeping more than an hour at a time
and waking up to see what’s happening online
[just as slow then as my service is here]

and while my younger years were not a piece of cake
by any means
and i wouldn’t want to relive them fully

getting the opportunity to rehash them with a
stronger body
and more calmed mind
surrounded by other artists…

kind of a quiet dream.