This past December in Mexico City, I poured a little piece of my soul into the four walls of a photo gallery, called the show “Getting Lost”, lit some candles, put on some groovy tunes, and as the sun went down and people started coming in I watched with baited breath to see what would unfold. After all, we can create the skeleton, to give lifeless bones their vitality we need raw breath, people who come to inhabit a space and define their experience there. So I had no clue really, what was going to happen. It was exhilarating; scary; magical; a hell of lot of fun; and most importantly, a confirmation that something was clicking into place. That night filled me with joy, purpose and an overwhelming gratitude for the paths I’ve been led to discover and all the incredible people and places I’ve had the fortune of meeting along the way.

I chose the theme of Getting Lost because, as I sat a few weeks earlier with a bunch of photographs on my lap, I had thought long and hard about what might link them together – what concept or idea echoed throughout each shot, and indeed, what linked them to me and my purpose, my past, present and future? I realized something in that moment. In the best of ways, I’ve been striving to get lost my whole life. And it’s an active effort, too. The world often works in its structured and predictable ways, for which many times I am grateful but sometimes it leaves little place for mystery and serendipity. So instead, I’ve tried going as far off the trodden road as possible, to feel viscerally, to experience a plethora of realities, to doubt and question everything. Throughout these adventures, my journeys ended up showing me, gently but firmly, unraveling bit by bit, the sense of direction and deeper purpose that I so desperately craved.

During the show, I handed out the following as an introduction to my work:

When was the last time you allowed yourself to get lost? The last time you followed the sound of hesitant footsteps and lost all sense of time, suddenly melted into a place as if by magic? Something special happens when we wander off the trail. We forget ourselves to find ourselves. We open up our souls to mystery. Our hearts start to beat faster. The skin tingles. See, there is splendor in places and things we would have overlooked if we had walked a safer path. Our emotions bubble so close that they tumble out – unspoken words, buried feelings, secret jewels of inspiration, neuroses, boundless mute songs – all come to life amongst the places we know the least.

It was through losing myself time and time again, in different landscapes with foreign languages, strange beliefs, extraordinary tales and characters, that I’ve slowly started to piece together my own sense of self. Whether it was in Japan, Burma, Argentina, Iceland, Mexico – each of these photographs was taken during a moment of sheer euphoria and an overwhelming joy of being alive.

And so it’s become clearer what my time here might entail – to connect with places of beauty and pain, dazzling natural habitats, to the marginalized communities that live in them and to the diversity that surrounds us when we choose to observe it – and through my own passion for these things, to act as a bridge to help other people connect with them and remember them too. My mediums are letters and words, images and emotions, connections and touch, and soon to be in the coming year, immersive travels and journeys deep into the heart of things and places on the frayed corners of our maps.

A few weeks ago I was offered another singular opportunity… To explore Antarctica, one of the planet’s last great wildernesses. I met an explorer called Sir Robert Swan, the first man in history to walk across both of the Earth’s poles and whose life’s mission is to educate the next generation of global leaders in sustainability and conservation. Through his 2041 Leadership on the Edge program, he inspires and trains people on his journeys to then return home and kickstart change amongst their own circles. I was humbly invited to hop on board on their upcoming expedition to Antarctica next March. And of course, I’ll be going.

And so, this exhibition was spurred to help me get one step closer to Getting Lost again, this time in Antarctica – and to bringing back what I’ll learn there to help us get a little more lost here, in Mexico, and in many other places too, to rediscover and protect this beautiful planet that we call home.

Photos of the individual photographs I featured are here below with their corresponding description, and if any tickle your fancy, send me a message and they’re yours. For me, something that really get me ticking is to know that a little piece of my soul and a magical moment I experienced will be lighting up the intimate spaces of family and loved ones, and unknown ones too; and the fact that I’ve been given the opportunity to be able to do so still fills me with incredulity and happiness.

Enjoy 🙂

Islands in Time // Japan 

In the far-flung misty islands of Japan’s Seto Sea, over the past 30 years an art mecca has slowly sunk into the hills and cascaded down into abandoned fishing villages with ageing inhabitants. There are countless works of art to visit across the islands of Naoshima, Teshima, Inujima, and many others too, and each person is free to roam and discover their own way of experiencing them. On Inujima Island I came across this unexpected sight – bright emerald trees and patches of moss green and glorious flashes of pink blossom, and, amongst it all, an abandoned copper refinery-turned art museum sprouting out of nowhere, an utterly imposing sight that echoed of a time of prosperity that now lay wrecked in desolation.

For me, these islands pushed the boundaries of what it means to consume art and what art really is. I’ve always thought that nature itself is art. The Japanese have known this for a while – just take a look at the sacred worship they hold for the careful arrangement of a flower’s petals, the reverence for a strangely shaped rock and the blooming of a springtime tree. This refinery, lost in the middle of nowhere and overgrown by nature, made me reflect on the passage of time and of great civilizations that have now turned to dust, as we all will, Ozymandias-like, with bare desert sands and salty seas just staring on.

Balancing Act // Burma

I travelled to Burma several months after the military junta had allowed foreigners to travel into the country again, and I fell in love with the power and beauty of both the landscape and its people. I arrived to Inle Lake sometime in my third week there, a large freshwater basin in the mountainous Shan state famed for fishermen who’ve developed a dexterous fishing technique unique to the region, using their legs to steer the boats whilst their hands work the nets and bait fish. This morning, both water and sky turned silver mercury and the sun’s rays were silky blue. In the far distance I could make out dark shapes emerging from the clearing fog which were none other than these famed fishermen, engaging in their precarious balancing acts, fully intent on the activity at hand. Sometimes we tend to forget the profound respect due to our fishermen and farmers, all around the world, people whom have developed intricate ties and relationships with the land and without whom we would starve. Watching these men work, I was reminded of the sheer skill and dedication that their profession entails and the gratitude owed to them.

Jungle Guardians // Chiapas

I’d like to share one of my favourite passages of all literature from Herman Hesse, whose words echo in my heart every time I look up at a tree or walk alone in a forest:

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree.”

“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts… Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.”

Glacial Mornings I & II // Iceland

In southern Iceland right on the edge of a sweeping national park lies the Jökulsárlón glacial lagoon. I was traveling through the country in midsummer, an epic road trip where in five sleepless days we circuited the entire island covering around 2898km (yes, I counted…). At this time of year, being on the road was too irresistible to allow for rest. The sun never sets – it just dips into the horizon and then swoops back up again, and I was sunset chasing. During the daytime, the Jökulsárlón lagoon is overrun with motorboats which meander between a chess board of colossal icebergs marbled black and blue by volcanic fire. At three in the morning though, when the crowds are gone, the real magic sets in. The sun pours herself over the icy scene and sculpts icebergs into incredible swirling paintings of liquid pastel. Apart from a lone seal bobbing and playing in the freezing waters, we were the only ones there, and the tranquility was breathtaking, eerily quiet, silently heaving from the tectonic forces which churned under the surface. The low groan of the glacier reminded me of how alive the earth is under our feet, how we live on a little rocky island in space that beats to its own drum, and I promised myself in that moment to take more time to try and listen to its song.

Dear Departed  // Koyasan

A vast Buddhist temple complex perched atop an alpine basin, Koyasan was founded twelve centuries ago by one of the most famous monks in the history of Japan and the father of the Shingon school of Buddhism, Kobo Daishi (in true manner of the greats of old, Daishi was also an engineer, calligrapher and poet). Today, it’s reachable only by a creaky old cable car and apart from dozens of Buddhist monasteries is also home to a vast cemetery called Okuno-in. I walked in reverent silence as I passed under the cemetery’s colossal five-hundred-year old cedar trees and over 300,000 mossy, glistening statues, altars and tombstones called gorintō.

Gorintō are composed of five pieces which represent the Buddhist philosophy of the five elements – a cube (earth, stability), a sphere (water, flow), a triangle (fire and intention), a crescent (wind, the expansive mind) and a lotus flower (ether and spirits). The entire cemetery, with its ancient trees and labyrinthine paths, vibrated with a profound and overwhelming energy. At the doors of one of the smaller shrines, I found this offering of a simple candle, wicker basket with coins and sake bottles left in worship for someone’s dear departed.

Día de los Muertos // Oaxaca

Move over Halloween – Mexico is where the cool kids go during the last few days of October. The celebrations of Día de los Muertos, aka Day of the Dead, summon up images of women with bejewelled painted faces like the goddess Mictecacihuatl, swirling colourful dresses, bright orange cempasúchil flowers adorning tombstones and lining the streets like cotton candy, feast-filled graves and of course, a party or two.

For thousands of years, the pre-Hispanic indigenous cultures of Mexico – the Mixtecas, Zapotecs, Olmecs, and Mayans, amongst others – would pay homage to their departed during an entire month’s celebration that fell on the ninth month of the calendar. This month was dedicated to the goddess of the dead Mictecacihuatl, and was also intrinsically linked to the end of agricultural cycles of wheat, beans, chickpeas and squash; altars were heaped high with crops and joyful processions animated villages. Similar to Buddhist ideology, many of the ancient civilizations believed that death was just a step towards a new life, an endless flow of energy and a cycle of re-birth, a continuum where contact with the dead was an embraced and ritualized occurrence.

When the Spanish conquistadores landed upon the New World accompanied by hordes of Catholic priests, the indigenous Mictecacihuatl celebration was moved forward to coincide with All Saints Day. The result of this blend in the modern day is a truly unique Mexican celebration of life and death, of indigenous vibrancy combined with Christian tradition.

Épice D’Or // Guatemala

Rising from the Eastern highlands of Guatemala, the tall mountain range of the Cerro San Gil hugs coast and extends its lush jungle right into the Caribbean Sea. I had gone there to document a project on the sustainable, ethical sourcing of cardamom from local farmers and was left speechless by both the majesty of the landscape and the sheer work that goes into the production and processing of the cardamom itself. One of the world’s most ancient spices originating from India, cardamom’s small, brown-black sticky seeds emit a warm and aromatic flavour used in everything from fine fragrances to food flavours and aromatherapy.

Fruits, spices, scents, flavours, plants – our planet’s produce has never been more accessible than it is today. We can find and buy at any place, anytime, anywhere. However, this comes with a glaring caveat – we’ve become fundamentally separated from how and where things are sourced. We don’t pause to think about how many people and processes have been involved for products to grow, how many pairs of hands have toiled and laboured, how deep a value chain really goes, in order for us to be able to enjoy what arrives on our doorsteps daily. And if we don’t really know, it naturally becomes quite hard for us to gage the value of the beauty behind our everyday joys.

There’s a reason why cardamom is nicknamed the “Epice d’Or”, the golden spice – for all the work that goes into it. Perhaps through being more aware of where things are sourced and by whom, by allowing ourselves to be more inquisitive and ask questions, we might be willing to pay a little more (and a little more consciously too), knowing that it goes directly into the pockets of the local communities for whom these things are often their only lifeline.

Lagoon Blues // Bacalar

The lagoon of seven colours, they call it… Bacalar, right on the border with Belize, with its beaches thick like quicksand, whose waters shift with unpredictable moods, profound teal turquoise at once bright and yet obscure. The water that day was silken and there was something gelatin-like to its texture as I watched it drift past our wooden dock. A storm was brewing in the distance, a tempest that would soon whip the lagoon into a frenzy of dusky chaos and paint the sky with a double rainbow sliced by lightning beams. I was filled with the urge to jump in and get closer to what I was seeing, and I leaped in before it was too late, my breath cut short by the salty water as I let the luminescent liquid flow over me. This image will always remind me of the calm before the storm, of the duality of light and darkness and the thin, perfect line that separates the two.

Fisherman’s Catch // Burma

I travelled to Burma several months after the military junta had allowed foreigners to travel into the country again, and I fell in love with the power and beauty of both the landscape and its people. Crisscrossing the land means of clanging, run down buses, I arrived to Inle Lake sometime in my third week there. Inle is part of a large freshwater basin in the mountainous Shan state and is famed for its fishermen who’ve developed a dexterous fishing technique unique to the region, using their legs to steer the boats whilst their hands work the nets and bait fish. At sunset, our captain found refuge from the strong lake currents in a patch of floating foliage and a young fisherboy passed by, coming closer and closer and all of a sudden giving us a complete impromptu performance.  He used a conical device to trap a fish in the water and forced it to swim up the narrow end of the cone (this works because the entire lake is rarely more than 5m in depth), right into the boy’s waiting hands. I noticed though that he had sneakily tricked us into thinking he had captured the fish right in front of our eyes, but actually had slipped a previous catch right back into the net – a further wink to the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the Burmese locals.

Geisha Secrets // Kyoto

The traditional “pleasure quarter” of Kyoto, Gion, is where geishas have seduced and entertained their male companions for centuries. Young aspirants to the profession live in special homes called okiya and are taught hospitality skills and other traditional Japanese arts which are almost lost in newer generations. Today, although Gion is still a very popular destination for these reasons, it’s become increasingly rare to cross a real life geisha in the streets. This moment was a complete instance of serendipity. I had wandered down a random narrow alleyway and popped into a tiny sunlit tea room with old Japanese ladies gossiping around their macha teas, and as I walked out these two geishas were there, trotting along ahead of me on their wooden platform shoes, footsteps echoing in the silent passages like horse’s hooves. The pair was looking at a worn plastic map, obviously lost and tottering back up the street, a sight which could only make me smile at their endearing expressions as they tried to avoid the main tourist roads. I thanked my lucky stars for having entered just then into the tea room, as thirty seconds later I would never have come across them; and so, whenever I see the image of these two geishas, I get filled with a feeling of the serendipity of life and so many other moments which are just waiting to be discovered.

Día de los Muertos II // Oaxaca 

Burmese Days // Bagan

I gazed down from the temple’s steep altar to the expansive valley that swept out before me, lit up by a burning bright sunset light, and as I nibbled on a cold mango I thought about Burma’s soul. I could see for miles – up till the river bed of the Irrawaddy, to the distant mountain peaks that rose dark and undulating in the distance, all basking in a golden glow. One particular temple kept catching my eye, a gothic looking mansion in light terracotta with intricate details and spires, bulbous stupas, intricate peaks…

Burma was a country which at that time was still relatively unexposed to the outside world and the feeling of isolation was palpable. Men donned traditional Burmese longhyi sarongs around their waists and women painted their faces with thanaka tree paste against the scorching sun. Lands like Bagan lay open to discovery, a surrealist dreamscape of over two thousand fairytale temples, pagodas and monasteries, that I couldn’t even have conjured up in my wildest dreams. It made me think, does man build up his faiths in his own image or are our faiths built up in the image of man?

Of Myths and Mountains // Japan

Last April I set off on a solo road trip around Shikoku, the smallest of Japan’s four main islands nestled between the Seto Inland Sea and the Pacific Ocean. It’s the least populated and subsequently least traveled region of the country, which was why I was drawn to travel there. I wanted to get off the map… I had spent the night in a traditional thatched roof farmhouse high above the Iya valley, a spectacular land of deep river gorges, dense pines, quaint local villages and cherry blossom trees. These were the lost lands of Japanese myths, dark woods where a group of shamans came to flee persecution from Nara in the ninth century and the defeated Heike warriors infamously spent their final days in hiding. I woke up at the break of dawn, eagerly anticipating a sunrise that would sweep across the rugged valley below and slowly rise amongst the balmy mountaintops in the distance. The icy wind bit into my face as I stepped out onto the wooden porch and I held my breath as layer upon layer of a ghostly, mystical mist began lifting from the hills in front of me and dissolved into the rising light.

Trailing the Tarahumara // Barrancas del Cobre 

The Barrancas del Cobre are a network of canyons in northern Mexico and are whole lot wilder, deeper, and more desolate than their famous neighbor the Grand Canyon. The guardians of these vast ranges are the Tarahumara (or Rarámuri) indigenous tribes who fled Spanish rule back in the 1500s; they lead remote lives, scattered amongst rickety wooden huts and isolated caves peppered throughout the mountainside. If you’ve heard of the Tarahumara before, it’s probably because of their feet. They can run, run, run, nonstop, outpacing the innumerous international marathon runners that come to the canyons just to race them.

Our four-day trek through was one of the most singular trips of my life. This night’s camp was perched high atop a ravine on a lunar landscape of rounded boulders with a hummingbird laden tree just below us and a solstice strawberry moon that slowly rose above the cliffs in the distance. I slept in the open air, very aware that any rolling about or sleepwalking would send me over the edge, but the urge to sleep under the milky stars was too strong. I had never considered myself as a trekker before, but trip converted me. I began to realize that some of the places most worth going to are the ones only reachable by foot. There’s something unique too about walking for days on end, lost in your own thoughts, musings, neuroses, conversations with the mountains and the meditative rhythm of footsteps traversing the landscape.

Volcano Craters // Mexico

People frequently ask me why I decided to come live in Mexico, and to be honest I always feel that my explanations fall short in portraying the overwhelming love I feel for the country, its people and its landscapes. One of the many things that I find incredible about Mexico, ironically enough, is its proximity to nature, the ability to hop in a car and travel just a few hours outside of the city to come across so many different kinds of sceneries and subcultures.

The Nevado de Toluca is an extinct volcano with spectacular crater lakes just a few hours outside of the capital; this particular day the morning was bitterly cold, and all of a sudden a thick fog descended over us the moment we started climbing up the volcano. We kept going but after a few exhausting hours our ragtag crew arrived to a steep crevasse and realized that we were very much lost, and should probably head back. Just then, as if by magic, the thick mist decided to lift and we found ourselves surrounded by an almost surreal bright field with sloping craggy hills, the lake clearing behind us and the wind howling through the volcanoes. We all stood still, transfixed for what felt like a very, very long time, watching the scene unfold before we slowly and tentatively made our way back down the mountain.

Buddhist Prayers // Xining

A few years ago I went on a journey to go visit remote schools in the mountains of Xining, China, pretty much the closest you can get to Tibet without crossing the border. Having lost all contact with my Google Maps, I was trying desperately to find someone who spoke English to help me find my way when suddenly I stumbled across one of the most singular temples I’ve ever witnessed. The Longwu Buddhist monastery is a place hardly mentioned on any tourist maps or guide books, and is set against a backdrop of deep beige dry mountain ranges with around six hundred monks living inside its walls. The echoes of my footsteps echoed under the hot midday sun, and each temple exploded with intricate colors linked by a series of meandering stone passages that crumbled at the barest touch. Devout locals were walking around in deep prayer, humming mantras in whispers…. And you know what – if my maps had worked, I would never have come across this magical place….

Vermillion Monks // Cambodia

This was a moment which took me completely by surprise – I had arrived at daybreak to an ancient Khmer temple in Angkor Wat (having avoided the guards and sneaked in through a back archway) and was having a silent moment to myself, watching a particularly spectacular sunrise, when all of a sudden five brilliantly clad monks swept around the corner, their bright orange and vermillion robes flowing above the cool gray stones and early morning mist. The temples of Angkor are a breathtaking sight with their distinctive terraced towers, sweeping galleries and sinuous, sensuous reliefs, Hindu-turned-Buddhist structures regarded as the heart and soul of Cambodia. Mystical Angkor lay hidden, submerged in the jungle for hundreds of years only to be rediscovered in the mid-19th century, and many of its temples are overgrown with the trunks of silk-cotton trees that coil around the temples like wax reptiles.

Spirited Away // Japan

The Kumano Kodo are series of thousand-year-old pilgrimage trails that snake through the southern Kansai forests of Japan and plunge deep into its mountain ranges. A walking pilgrimage like the Kumano Kodo unites divine belief with physical action, a transformation through the exertion of the body towards spiritual goals. It’s an ode to nature and spirituality, and to the unique mix of Japanese Shintoism and Buddhism which believe in the existence of cheeky kami spirits who live amongst the trees and streams and natural formations. These faiths beckoned to me – their concepts of an endless flow of life and death, of hidden energies that swirl all around us, of connectivity between all beings and worlds inside of ourselves we don’t even know are there. For several days I wandered alone through these moss covered woods, losing myself in the trance of pilgrimage and meditating on the ethereal force of nature and of solitude, all the while the tall creaking trees and soft breeze blowing around me. Every minute I felt like I was in the presence of something, but I couldn’t put my finger exactly on what – my every step being watched, observed – and so I just smiled and watched right back.

School’s Out // Japan

The least populated and least traveled region Japan, Shikoku, is the smallest of its four islands and lies between the Seto Sea and the Pacific Ocean. During my road trip there, countless times I encountered situations nothing short of the bizarre, like toll booths in the middle of nowhere that would talk to me like something straight out of a Miyazaki film, or a series of majestic bridges, each completely different in size, material and stunning in shape, which no one I spoke to could give me more information about.

Another strange phenomenon of Shikoku is its collection of abandoned, derelict buses left lying by the side of the road. I must have crossed at least ten of these all in different states of disrepair and decay, some pointing to landslides, severe calamities, and others, like this one, relics who just perhaps decided that their time serving school children was done. Something particularly special about this bus though is how I ended up finding it in the first place. Sometimes when you drive through foreign lands you get weird callings – “Take a side turn, veer off the main road” goes your heart – and you don’t really know why, and so you tell yourself not to be silly and keep driving on. Don’t do that. Listen. When you learn to trust those instincts I’ve found that life rewards you for it. I had one of those moments to take this turn off the highway in Shikoku, and so, with a last minute swerve, I drove up a random hill in the middle of nowhere and there she was, waiting for me, winking.

Sunset Chasing // Iceland

When I took this picture, half my body was dangling precariously out of the window of our Toyota RAV4, the bitter wind pouring down my shirt as we whipped around sharp bends heading to the glacial lagoon. My friend was driving and as copilot I kept on snapping shot after shot of this sunrise scene, the clouds turning vivid orange above the black beaches of southern Iceland and silhouetting the electricity poles that stretched into the distance like a wistful path into the emptiness beyond. I was traveling through the country in midsummer, an epic road trip in which five sleepless days we circuited the entire island, covering about 2898km (yes, I counted…). At that time of year in Iceland, being on the road was irresistible – the sun never sets, it just dips into the horizon and then swoops back up again – sending an array of colours spilling into the landscapes. Try to steal moments like these with nature, or even with cities, times when the rest of the world might be sleeping or have not woken up yet; there’s a complicity that develops between you and a place, between its secret song and your own captive audience….

Jungle Rising // Chiapas

 Earlier this fall I spent several days scouting in the southern jungles of Chiapas, and on my last morning there I woke up before sunrise to take a boat out on the Rio Lacantún. I folded my arms across my chest to defend against the chilly mist and gazed down the river, at the way it cut through the jungle like a sharp toothed serpent, and squinted in the dawn sun that glowed white and shone like liquid fire to light up hazy layers of distant trees. The moon was still full and hung heavy above the jungle. We passed monkeys dropping fruit down to fish, weird furry delicious river fruits that grew in pods like cotton candy, bats suspended on tree trunks, camouflaged agents of the night with scythe like claws, colorful toucans, cheeky woodpeckers, minute finches and immense sturdy roots that wrinkled and folded over like sculptures. Huge palm leaves the size of armchairs cut the sunlight into ragged pieces.

As the strong current of the river carried me along, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of the profundity of the jungle, of its immensity and power, its simple gentle being and patient wisdom in the face of all of man’s fussing and fretting about. The serenity of that sunrise reminded me that time need not exist, that life flows on of its own accord and our souls are just visitors on Earth for a beautiful moment in time. We have a lot to learn from the jungle. It doesn’t ask to compete, to crave, to be more. It just is.

Skeleton Boughs // Mexico

I’d like to share one of my favourite passages of all literature from Herman Hesse, whose words echo in my heart every time I look up at a tree or walk alone in a forest:

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree.”

“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts… Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.”

Jungle Rising II // Chiapas