06/03/2026
This past weekend, under the full flower moon, I moved into a new home on 40 acres in the Eastern Sierra. The land—on the blurred edge between the Mojave and Great Basin deserts, at the foot of the great mountains—is dotted with springs, cut by ravines, and populated by cottonwoods and willows, rabbits and frogs, swaths of (currently blooming) yerba mansa, and endless sagebrush.
Inside the house is an old fireplace built with local stone—big chunks of granite and gleaming black obsidian. There are small chips of obsidian scattered all over the property, worked into sharp points by human hands—evidence this place has long been loved and visited by people. I’m honored to be next in line to care for it.
After last winter, when whatever cosmic force in charge of earthly goings-on spat me out from the life I knew and into the wild unknown, I wandered for a while, embittered and embattled, not quite ready to meet what would come next. The fire burned away certain things I’d once known in my bones: the feeling of home, in a place and in a community. In the aftermath, my relationship to my greatest teacher—the earth—shifted on its axis. I felt unmoored, like I was floating in space… nothing to hold onto… until I noticed there was still ground below me, only it was unknown territory. Unfamiliarity first felt like fear, until I started doing what I always do somewhere new: get down low to the earth. Learn the plants, the soil, the rocks, the animals. Begin to know this new place.
Being here is a commitment to being with the land. To knowing it, tending it, and engaging with all the nuance and messiness that good relationships contain. I hope you’ll join me in this process. I intend to host all kinds of events here—workshops, retreats, gatherings, offerings from others. It’s far from town (but it’s far from lonely—life is pulsing, sometimes overwhelmingly, all around), but it’s less than three hours from Los Angeles, where I’ll continue to travel to work and teach.
(Continued in comments)
