I write to understand.
These pages hold what I am still working out —
about ideas, about fatherhood, about being alive and paying attention.


  • The Art of Paying Attention in an Age of Noise

    We have built an entire civilisation in the business of distraction. Every notification is a small theft of presence. And yet — attention, I think, is the only truly scarce resource we have. Everything else can be earned back. This one cannot.

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  • The Weight of Small Things

    He is two years old. He weighs fourteen kilograms, which is something I know precisely because I carry him, often, and because his weight has become a kind of unit of measurement for presence.

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  • On Rereading Old Journals

    There is something deeply strange about meeting your past self in the margin notes of a dog-eared notebook — a self who was certain about things you now doubt, and doubtful about things you now know.

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  • Learning to Be Patient (Notes from the Floor)

    Patience, I thought I knew, was a virtue I had in reasonable supply. Then I had a toddler. Now I understand that what I had was the absence of adequate provocation.

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