The grit of this poem appeals to me. I like its staunch acceptance of what’s difficult and its self-determination re: what’s worth keeping. Over the months of working with it, I’ve found myself thinking about longer arcs of legacy. Generational ones.

I'm deep in shop-move planning and looking to trade out my 26” guillotine for a 23” one.

The line “i continue to continue” kept ringing for me: staunch, solid, no reason needed for being. When casting about for something I could do for my community in those dire days of being afraid of each other’s breath, I got this crazy idea to paint a mural of that single line.

I read fast, and then I read slow, and I often set it aside for months and see what sticks with me. What surfaces when I pick it up again later. I know I’ve hit on a poem or part of a poem I want to print when it makes me feel something big and I can’t get it out of my head.

What a poem. It makes me feel at once hopeful and sad, sweet and desolate, longing and content with not knowing. Many lines tug at me and make me cry—in a way that feels like the small child inside of me crying—because she's being seen.

For me the size of a notebook matters a lot and it matters to have more than one. And to always have one! I think differently on the road than at home and while I rarely look back at anything I wrote, I feel a panic if I don't have a physical space for writing.

What good's a collaboration if I only share what I feel sure of? I took a deep breath and sent off both excerpts and got a resounding response from the entire SAL staff: You are not you for long. And goodness we aren't, are we?

I love the mystery and the strength it holds. The lack of translation makes a weaving happen that reminds me of how much I don't know, and can't know.

I feel this poem speaks from a young and an old place at the same time and I love how it holds the two together. Unapologetically. It reminds me how we are always ourselves, holding our pain and joy, our knowing and unknowing.

A new press in the life of a printer is a very big deal. And a dream press arriving at even the most inopportune time is a wonder to say yes to.

SOLD! 23" Challenge guillotine paper cutter for sale. Asking $900. Sharp, clean, square: this small guillotine cuts big stacks of paper with ease. It's used often in a working print shop and the only reason for selling is that we're getting a bigger one!

While printing this piece, in the literal act of making, I had the strangest feeling that this broadside already existed. Like I found it rather than made it. I've experienced this before but I still cannot explain it.

I find a strange comfort in these lines even though I really don't know what they mean. This is what I love about poetry—it eases my need to know and cuts great swathes through my thinking.

What I’m most grateful for about the losses I’ve experienced in my life is their effect of making me suddenly, unexpectedly, excruciatingly present. The summer my older brother died I was painting a friend’s 2-story 4-bedroom house a soft pale yellow.

When I first read June Jordan’s “Poem about My Rights,” it was the first day of spring break. I was sitting at a coffee shop next to Expedition Press with my friend. We saw Myrna and she invited us over. On her wall in the shop there was a copy of the poem tacked up. I still can’t fully describe how powerful it felt, so full of emotion and honestly, I’d never read anything more mesmerizing. 

Recently I was interviewed by a 13 yr old who asked me what the hardest part of my job is. “Time!” I said immediately. “Good lord, time management. Knowing what to prioritize when.” A week prior a journalist asked me about my relationship to time as if I knew some secret about detaching from the fast-paced pressures of the digital

A year ago, at a windy roadside stop in South Dakota with a couple flickering bars of reception, I checked my email. There was a message from the manager of a gallery in downtown Seattle. She was wondering whether I wanted to join next year?

I first read the poem “Sweet Darkness” by David Whyte on a Friday, at the end of one of the worst weeks of my life. Husband demanding separation, step daughter screaming, mother gone missing.

It’s a simple practice. Write three pages, first thing every morning, longhand. Can't imagine not writing them.

I watched the election results come in with increasing sickness. I went to bed early and woke up numb. The rollercoaster ride since recalls the early days after my brother died: anger, shock, despair, and overall a grand penetrating sense of pure disbelief.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my voice as an artist and my role as a publisher: how they inform and whether they inhibit each other. I feel a strong insistence that I should divide these actions and define them. Then I forget.