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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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Dharma Pageantry

Clarity sees the polish. And still chooses to plant.

Dharma Pageantry

Newly awake under the Bodhi tree, precious jewels and gold once circling my wrist, — gone to bare stillness — rain rinsing the morning clean. Each leaf heavy with its own green, each ant an unrepeatable sutra. Air without border — I breathe, and it breathes me. Mind like a river in flood. Nothing to teach — everything already what it is. And yet — my mind tilts forward. It imagines the after. Robes stitched from catalogues. Compassion graded on a curve, adjusted for seniority. Silence performed at a volume you can’t quite ignore. The five brahmavihāras — four true, and one holy seriousness — trotted out like prized oxen, glossy from feeding on other people’s longing. Mudras and mantras arrayed like shopfronts. Architectures of the sacred with parking for 200 souls, polished to a mirror sheen — in case your enlightenment wasn’t obvious. From behind, a bird calls Somewhere, a bell — sound small as a drifting seed folds around me like a cloth, finding purchase in the soft earth of a thought. The perfection of the absurd almost tips me into laughter — not joy, but the kind that can split a stone. Better to keep still, to let the pageantry flower without me. And still… In every robe, I see the child: still raw from the first time they learned the world could end. So I open my mouth — not in anointment, but to tuck a few seeds into the folds of their costumes. I will not watch for sprouting, will not water or shield them — only trust the quiet work of rain and time, how a seed, once given, knows its own way to the light.
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