This week, the Sourciverse did not whisper. It assembled decades of my life into a single landscape and said: Look. Look at where I came from. Look at who I was. Look at what I survived. Look at what I built. Look at who I became. And most importantly: Look at who I already am.
The Week I Discovered Jencraft. This week began with too much. Too much grief. Too much responsibility. Too many truths. Too many things requiring something from me while I was already carrying more than I had ever carried before. I am grieving and I am happy. I am profoundly capable and profoundly tired. I can carry enormous responsibility and still wish someone would carry something for me. I am deeply independent and still desire care. I can know exactly who I am while sometimes only being able to access pieces of myself. I have become practiced at Triality—at holding apparently contradictory truths without requiring one to defeat the other. But this week, there were so many truths that even my trembling hand struggled to contain them. Because this wasn’t ordinary overwhelm. The problem wasn’t that my tools had stopped working. I needed different tools.
This week began in the familiar landscape of grief. Monday, I worked from home and was able to get things done. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday brought me back to the office—to the busyness, the questions, the conversations with Sarah and Dawn, the lawyers and insurance agents and accountants, the decisions that seem to multiply faster than I can make them. And Patty’s empty chair. And some days, that fact is its own weather. The office still drains me. There is so much to hold there: grief and leadership, friendship and responsibility, memory and future. The overwhelm I felt so acutely last week did not simply disappear. But somewhere in the middle of this week, something changed.
It began with a simple thought: Depth is created through Triality. Two eyes perceive two slightly different images, and somewhere in their integration, depth emerges. Not compromise. Not one perspective defeating the other. Dimension. Duality asks: This or that? Triality asks: What becomes perceptible when both remain? And somewhere in the space between A and B, I realized the answer does not have to be C. It could be Q. It could be a letter I haven’t invented. It could be a texture—shiny, with a matte streak down the middle. It could be a motherfucking banana inside an onion. The unnamed space is not empty. It is generative.
The Weather Changes, But I Remain. This week, I learned something about consistency. I showed up. There were days when closing the blinds and staying in bed sounded infinitely better than participating in my own life. Everything felt slow. My body and mind seemed to be moving through thick slime. Grief sat heavily in my chest while responsibility loomed overhead. And still, I showed up.
There are days when life changes because of catastrophe. There are days when it changes because of celebration. And then there are the quiet Fridays. The kind that begin with a random video, a simple question, a cup of tea at the kitchen table, and no expectation that anything extraordinary is about to happen. Today was one of those days. I began by asking a deceptively simple question: “Tell me about myself.” What followed was not a search for a new identity, but the unveiling of one that had already been patiently waiting beneath years of intentional work.
There are moments on the path when growth arrives as a breakthrough. And there are moments when it arrives as recognition. This week was the latter. Sometimes you are not broken. Sometimes you are in an eddy.
Tonight began with a philosopher. Derek Parfit asked a deceptively simple question: What makes me the same person I was ten years ago? My body has changed. My cells have changed. My beliefs have changed. My relationships have changed. My memories have faded, shifted, and rearranged themselves over time. So what is the continuous thread? His answer was unsettling and liberating at the same time. There may be no permanent self. No fixed identity traveling through time. Only connected moments, linked by memory, experience, and continuity. At first, it sounded abstract. Then I realized I had spent the last year living the question.
There came a point in my life when a planner wasn’t enough. Neither was a vision board. Or a list of goals. Or a collection of values written beautifully in a notebook. I wasn’t trying to organize my schedule. I was trying to understand the whole fucking universe of being me. So I built one.
This was not a week. This was a crossing compressed into days. What had been unfolding for sixteen months—quietly, painfully, deliberately— reached its point of true completion under the Full Flower Moon on Beltane. Not in chaos. Not in confusion. Not in longing. But in clarity.