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I’ve watched fear bloom in my heart like a Venus flytrap, snapping at any beautiful thing that dares to flutter too close. And I’ve decided: this joy thing is not child’s play. Joy too can be an act of resistance, as many people before me have observed. 

Not too long ago, I took two semesters of poetry workshops under Dr. Robert A. Fink. Each week, every student in the class was given a stack of p...

The following poem was written specifically for the Summer 2019 issue of Cultivating and first published there in June 2019. The enchanting photo...

All the beauty in the world is no compensation for the ending of love, Edna St. Vincent Millay argues in her brief and bitter poem, "Spring," Yes, ...

I'm excited to announce that I've recently joined a team of wonderful writers, thinkers and artists over at The Cultivating Project. The purpose of...

This year, I spent Christmas in the Dallas Fort Worth metroplex and in all honesty, it was hard. It was sweet that Alex and I finally got to spend ...

When I was twelve, I had the opportunity to spend an afternoon in the legendary bookshops of the Welsh town of Hay-on-Wye. For £5, I purchased an a...

That is no country for old men. The youngIn one another's arms, birds in the trees,—Those dying generations—at their song,The salmon-falls, the mac...

"...unruffled, sure, by the laws of their faith not logic, they opened their wingssoftly and steppedover every dark thing."           (Mary Oliver...

I got married. To my best friend and my beloved companion. At our ceremony, my sister read from The Little Prince and we both cried like babies on ...

I’m not in Ireland today, but the grey sky in West Texas has been pouring steady water for over twenty-four hours. When I went running down the flo...

[I wrote this reflective letter last month as part of a final project for the Fall 2016 Semester Honors Discourse in Cultural Theory, taught by Dr...