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Orientation 2

Naikan In Four Movements

This four-part Naikan series grew out of a course I offered at Baltimore Dharma Group in Spring 2025. While Naikan is often framed as a tool for self-reflection, I came to see it as something more relational: not a system of correction, but a practice of returning—again and again—to what holds us, what flows through us, what we leave behind, and what we remain with.
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Orientation 3

Threadwork

Here, in language, is the closest I have come to tracing the patterns I live inside — and the patterns I see others living inside, too. ...That, to me, is the heart of this offering: not to win empathy through performance, but to make coherence inhabitable — even when the pattern isn't matched. These pieces are not arguments. They do not aim to persuade. They exist to demonstrate — without explanation. To resonate — without claiming universality. To name the cost of asymmetry — without blaming the other. To hold clarity — without self-erasure.
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Orientation 4

Holding Vow Sutra: An Introduction

Introduction and Intention:  This is a sutra, but not a sutra in the traditional sense. It is not part of the Buddhist canon, nor is it offered from a seat of transmission or formal authority. It is, rather, a thread — woven from lived practice, shaped by fidelity, and rooted in a vow that did not begin with me and does not end with me.
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The Autistic Mode: A Way Of Thinking

We all have moments of deep concentration—those times when we are so absorbed in something that the world recedes. A musician practicing alone, refining a passage with exquisite focus. A philosopher turning an argument over in their mind, testing its weight from every angle. A scientist working through the layers of an equation, adjusting variables, refining the logic until it holds. In these moments, the noise of the world fades, and what remains is a kind of clarity, a steady presence of thought moving toward resolution.

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Threshold to Threadwork

Introduction: There are two doors into this work. The one below meets the moment. It is written in accessible language—for those seeking clarity about autistic experience, and especially about how it differs in rhythm, in structure, and in the invisible labor it asks of those who must translate themselves to be understood. But this isn’t the only way in. There is another door—quieter, less translated, more interior. If you're looking not just for insight, but for shape—if you’ve ever sensed that what goes unspoken is sometimes the most coherent thing there is—you may find yourself at home there.
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Musings from the Meta-Verse: Tip of the Iceberg Cosmologies

Before you begin: please take a moment, settle in, enjoy the image above—of me holding my baby daughter as a first-time dad, tune into the frequency of restful wonder. Now allow your mind to wander outward from the edges of that image: to the room, to the street outside, to the vast sky beyond the vast sky. Further—past the solar system, past the galaxy’s edge, past everything known—to the edge of the cosmos. And then…

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Woven

I never stopped making art. I just didn’t always call it that. What I made with you, my loves — in those days we shared — was the most embodied form of relational creation. Art was us — there was no interruption. Something Luu Li and and I talked about yesterday landed deeply. She said, “Wow Papa, 54 years! I'm so glad you’re starting to do art again.” And I told her — honestly — it’s never left me. But after that, I found myself thinking: when I was homeschooling Luu Li and CT, I wasn’t just not doing art — I was expressing my creativity through my life with them.
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To Love The Branchless Branch

A Note: Neither hope nor despair. Only the stance of remaining, bare in the wind.

To Love The Branchless Branch

I did not make this world, but I gave my children to it, hands trembling, heart wide as the sky. The air of my own lifetime was not perfect, but it was enough to let me grow into myself. Now I look forward and see the stormline advancing, its shadow crawling toward them. I do not want them to suffer. Not my children. Not the children they may have, who will inherit a world more brittle, more splintered, more desperate for light. I feel this grief like weather in my bones. It is not mine alone. It is older than me, rooted in every parent who ever saw the path ahead growing darker and could not lift the darkness away. If I could, I would be the branchless branch, the bare, worn branch, stripped but unbroken, bending the storm around them. I would trade my years for theirs. I would let them keep the small, soft mornings I still remember, where life felt endless, and the horizon stayed kind. But I have only this — to love them so fiercely that they remember they are not alone, even when the world forgets its gentler face. Yet when I step back, I feel the truth ripple through me — this life was never meant to be held. It moves like wind, like water, like the breath of a sleeping child. I see my children, and I see every child — not as anchors to a fixed world, but as sparks, brief, unrepeatable, enough to light the sky for a moment. Perhaps this is all beauty ever was — the shimmer before it fades, the note that lingers, not in its staying, but in how it disappears. If I can rest here, I can love without clenching, weep without drowning, and trust that even in a future I will never see, somewhere, someone will feel the echo of how fiercely I loved them.
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