Welcome

“You can sit with us.
You can live beside us.
You can play your music.
You can listen to mine.
We can dance together.
We can share our food.
We can keep an eye on each other's kids.
We can teach each other new languages.
We can respect traditions.
We can build new ones.
You can ask for a cup of sugar.
You can ask for directions.
You can tell me when things are hard.
You can tell me when beautiful things happen.
We can listen to stories.
We can disagree.
We can agree.
We can come to understandings.
You can wear what you want.
You can pray as you feel compelled to.
You can love who you want.
You can sit with us.”
― Elizabeth Tambascio

Welcome.

When I say that, I mean it in the way the line from Elizabeth Tambascio does—not as a polite formality, not as a hollow gesture, but as an invitation into the very messy, luminous, and uncompromising heart of life itself. You are welcome here. You can sit. You can linger. You can listen. You can speak. You can bring the parts of yourself that are tender, the parts that are fractured, the parts that blaze.

This space, this website, is more than words on a screen. It is a reflection of my journey—of the years when life was both storm and quiet, when survival felt like a full-time occupation, when joy was a fleeting visitor, and sorrow a stubborn companion. I have lived through moments of profound disorientation and yet found my footing again in art, in writing, in connection. I have learned that life’s meaning is not delivered neat, packaged, or painless. It is shaped in the accumulation of experiences, in the willingness to show up, in the courage to meet others halfway while holding fast to yourself.

Here, we share. You can play your music; I can share mine. We can dance in the living room of our imaginations. We can teach each other what we know and what we are still learning. We can respect tradition and create new ones in the same breath. We can talk about grief, about triumph, about the small moments that shine in ways too subtle for the outside world to notice. We can speak in different languages and still understand each other.

This is not a space of perfection. There is tension here. There is disagreement. There are questions that have no easy answers. But there is also grace—grace in the act of trying, in the effort to stay open, in the recognition that the human experience is a continuous unfolding, never complete, always changing. Here, you are invited to sit with all of it: the beauty, the ache, the curiosity, the wonder.

I invite you to step in, whether you arrive from far away or from just around the corner. Bring your stories, your music, your questions, your laughter. Bring your moments of courage and the moments when you feel small. This is a space where life is acknowledged in its fullness, where reflection meets action, and where the fragments of your day-to-day reality can meet the fragments of mine. Together, we make something that neither of us could make alone.

So sit with us. Stay awhile. Share. Listen. Learn. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Be. This is the journey, and I am glad you are here. You are not an observer—you are a participant. And in that participation, we are all a little more alive, a little more understood, and a little closer to the heart of what it means to live.