Emily Brisse

Friends: One of the reasons I love this space is because it allows me to just write, to not worry about narrative arc or publication criteria or even a singular piece's point. If a moment comes, and I want to put words around it: Here.  Here is where I know I can both talk to myself and talk to you, whether you talk back, whether you are out there at all. And sometimes those words, as amorphous as fog, become something that coalesces, rises up--become a thing to see and sometimes touch. I've been lucky these past months in that a few things I've written for this blog--after a bit of reworking--have been published by other places. Today, my essay "Tonic" from almost one year ago, is trying to reach into the moments of a few more people over at Mamalode . You might remember it? Sick boy, slow poems, a day that was long and tender. If you have a moment, read it again--especially if you or someone you know could do with some tea and soothing words during this co

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you. If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you. -- by David Wagoner To a year of being found. Happy 2016, all.