Sitting quietly,
doing nothing—
spring comes;
the grass grows
by itself.


About Grass Journal


I have always asked questions. For as long as I could articulate thoughts in words, I would ask questions that no one really knows the answers to—questions about death, meaning in life, about the universe. As I grew older, I worked very hard to not lose sight of these questions, even when everything else was telling me to focus on what was practical, answerable, and often fear-based. I very deliberately chose, through my teenage and into my adult years, to keep this sense of curiosity vibrantly alive. You could say the result of who I am is this continuous curiosity. To me, there is always something more to ask.

Slowly, this curiosity became a source of creativity—a kind of energy I had to push boundaries, and always choose my own path. Even though it pained me to be a loner, never really fitting in, I felt it was the only way I could go forward, the true way, to myself.

My mom often tells a story from when I was very young. I tried asking her questions that I couldn’t quite turn into words yet, and I would get so upset about it, I would give up. But something inside of myself never quite gave up on those questions. They receded for a time, but always came back when I had learned more. And now, I find the questions and answers have become what many call art. My art. The questions that come from being alive on earth.

What really matters? What is worth? Who am I? Questions so complicated and universal that they are cliché. Yet I think they matter. My answers are never final.

I heard it said once
that a great truth is like a mountain
that one walks continuously around.
Throughout the day, the light changes, and
every step shows something different.
You can never see the whole mountain at once,
but only in pieces, over time.
And as time passes, quickly for us, the mountain remains.

I think of great truths at night
when lack of light brings everything closer.
I can’t really see what is out there anymore.
A great bulk, rising above everything.
It has weight, but it makes no sound.
It answers no questions, only remains a single thing
making, and unmaking

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