For the past 273 days—39 weeks—I’ve been engaged in writing this newsletter to you.

Every day, I go through hundreds of images and cull the wheat from the chaff.

The horror you feel at your mistakes will pass.

This is the perfect time of year to emerge from one tunnel, blink upwards confused at the sun for a while, then pick another tunnel to head into.

Custard is sweet; ripened childhood dreams are sweeter.

Tart and soul in the Welsh countryside.

Lemongrass juice: it tastes like it should be sour. Why isn’t it sour?

There is no journey too arduous for a solid cup of coffee.

Accept your own wild, resident nature.

Going somewhere while going nowhere.

It’s my birthday and I’ll write if I want to. Also, maybe cry.

The best part of owning your shame is being able to throw it away.

On the real joy and difficulty of doing nothing.

Working from home during the pandemic has been an experiment in ritual and identity.

The parable fo the peach tree.