{#23} What Negative Space Reveals

There’s a flowering crabapple outside my window that tells me something I can’t see—when the wind is up. No sound, just motion: spring petals and leaves shimmering all at once, an ivory-green murmur against the sky. The wind itself is invisible. But I know it’s there...

{#22} When the Trail Narrows

I passed them one by one as I left home that morning. Dodging people in every form—on bikes, skateboards, pushing strollers—each of us negotiating the tight spaces of the Provo Canyon Trail. To be honest, I felt it: that transactional irritation. If I ride early, the...

{#21} The Quiet Thunder of Awe

There are moments—quiet, sudden, unbidden—when the world opens. A canyon flickers in the last light of day. Snow hushes everything. A spring flower opens before your eyes. Blossoms, not there yesterday, now spill across the flowering plum in your front yard. A child’s...

{#20} Measuring My Shadow

Shortly after the massive explosion of industrial growth following World War II, the German philosopher Martin Heidegger warned that modern life was beginning to treat the earth only in terms of its usefulness. As he put it: “Everywhere everything is ordered to stand...

{#19} Endless Summer

Winter in Utah County hits hard and often overstays its welcome. The cold settles in, clinging to the valley floor, and the mountains—majestic in summer—become an impassable wall of snow and ice. Even on bright days, the air is sometimes thick with inversion, locking...

{#18} Out of Season

Cold bites the air, frost grips the earth. Beneath the surface, something stirs—midwinter is not stillness, but a quiet revolution. Weeks have passed since the solstice, and weeks remain before the Vernal equinox—spring. The groundhog has seen its shadow, hinting at...