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Some symbols stay with us because they speak in a language older than words. A lotus rising from murky water. A small flame holding its shape in the dark. A line that loops back on itself and never e … read more

There is a stretch of coast I keep returning to. The same bend of shore. The same flat grey stones slick at low tide. Each time I arrive, I look for the small cairn I built years ago — and each time, … read more

On a windswept ridge above a lake I once visited, a small cairn stood at the place where the trail thinned into scree. I added a stone — flat, palm-sized, warm from my pocket — and walked on. I never … read more

The trail looked the same. The bend of the pine, the soft give of moss underfoot, the sound of water somewhere just out of sight. But the cairn I had built last summer — seven stones, carefully chose … read more

On a windswept ridge, someone once knelt in the dust and chose a single flat stone. They set it down. Then another. Then another. By the time the cairn stood waist-high, the light had shifted, the wi … read more