Field guides, foraging walks, spore prints on your kitchen table. An obsession that turns every hike into a treasure hunt.
Step outside at night. Look up. Know every bright point by name. The oldest form of navigation, still quietly magical.
Numbers become living things: surge, retreat, the moon's pull on the Pacific. Then you go see what was hiding.
Derailleur adjustment, brake bleeding, true a wheel. Make the thing that takes you places speak to you.
Contour lines become landscapes. Cliffs. Valleys. Saddles. The paper starts to look like the earth.
Green wood, a knife, and a few hours. The spoon emerges from the wood. Then you eat with the thing you made.
Every roadside ditch becomes a puzzle. Every meadow is a pop quiz you didn't study for but somehow keep passing.