​I’m putting pressure on myself.
The kind of pressure that holds you down. And holds you back.
Keeps defining your future steps in a certain way.
 
The kind of pressure that quakes in the face of death.
And runs hiding from the face of life.
You know… THAT kind of pressure.
 
And my chest burns with its impact.
Feeling all the well-intentioned and well-meaning selective actions I’ve taken.
Measured. Thought out. Like a cinched waistline that doesn’t want to reveal any curves.

Forge the Tiniest Crack
 
There is a place we each must journey to.
To face things we’ve been running from
our whole lives.

To face things that caused us to believe we were unworthy. Of love.
And unworthy
of life.

So we can settle in to something. To anything.
And rest our tired shoulders upon the unmovable. The essential.
To hunker in to some real kind of warmth.

The kind that darkness and stillness can only provide.

To unfurl within us a welcoming. A startling softness.
Throughout our body
underneath hard edges and encrusted layers,
jagged corners. The ones we’ve been avoiding. Side stepping.
Because we were so afraid to reach out a hand
and feel what rests below their surface.

For in our innocence, we had fully come to believe
they would cut and pierce us to the core.

She said it's much more than about building a house.
It's a lifestyle. It's a movement.
And Portland is at the epicenter.

This is my son. His name is Kordan. And he's 13.

For many years, he's had a dream.
To build a tiny house.
And this year, during 8th grade at his Waldorf school, students are asked to take on a year-long project to deepen their mastery of a skill, grow a passion, and be of service to the community.

So Kordan is building his Tiny Dream.