Articles

  • 3 weeks ago | thesunmagazine.org | Nancy Holochwost |Stephen J. Knauth |Leath Tonino |Richard Chess

    In Stephen Knauth’s “My Favorite Bird,” a “drab” little visitor to the author’s backyard prompts a thoughtful and empathetic contemplation of who this feathered creature is. The poem is a reminder that the world around us deserves our attention, an idea that is shared by the other poems in our April issue.

  • Jan 13, 2025 | outsideonline.com | Leath Tonino

    Seasonal reading—that’s my boring-but-apt term for enriching the mood and meaning of a certain time of year with the addition of a certain text. Each April, I reach for the “Spring” chapter in Walden.

  • Nov 9, 2024 | tricycle.org | Leath Tonino

    Mazu Daoyi was a famous Chan master who lived from 709 to 788 in Tang dynasty China. It’s foolish to try to summarize his deep teachings, but I am nothing if not a certified fool. Reading the anecdotes and dialogues that have come down through the ages (most recently in translations by David Hinton), what leaps out at me is an emphasis on nonjudgment. We need to drop the mind of “yes this” and “no that,” the mind embroiled in notions of good and bad, correct and incorrect, success and failure.

  • Aug 22, 2024 | tricycle.org | Leath Tonino

    Recently, I’ve adopted a new mantra. If you’re surprised to learn that it comes from the mouth of my 5-year-old nephew—a mouth often smeared with ketchup and/or chocolate ice cream—well, clearly, you haven’t met Dean. Granted, the kid is a grubby little hellion who refers to his dear uncle as Mr. Buttcheek Man, but he’s also quite introspective and bright. And more to the point, he’s very, very, very into catching.

  • Aug 18, 2024 | outsideonline.com | Leath Tonino

    Let me acknowledge, right up front, that in this ghastly era of anthropogenic global warming I combusted a whole bunch of fossil fuel in order to descend from the cool green sanctuary of the Colorado Rockies, where I’m blessed to reside, and cross the hot, dry, fiercely sunburned interior West. My destination was the kiln of the Mojave Desert and, sequestered within that immensity of thirst, a line on the thermometer: 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Or perhaps worse.

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