A wild tangle of thorny green climbs up the side of my stairwell. I'm not quite sure why I brought it here. Why I had faith that this barren rose might one day bloom. But I did. I pulled its deep root from my previous garden with the hopeful delusion of it wrapping lushly around two stories of metal trellis like a castle; one day bursting into crimson blooms with a change of soil, simply because I had willed it into being. I’ve uprooted myself in much the same way. Repotting across continents.

Unearthing Secrets on the Page: Erasure Poetry WorkshopJoin in a 45-minute creative session exploring the transformative power of erasure poetry. We’ll begin with a brief overview, reflecting on historical examples and how this poetic form intertwines with hybrid approaches that may be relevant to your own creative practice. Bring a pencil and a printout of 2–3 pages from a beloved book. Together, we’ll carve new meanings from existing texts and share our new creations as time allows. Complete payment to Paypal.me/amyparrish/25 and follow-up with a social media DM or email to contact@amyparrish.com to receive the Google Meet link. I look forward to the creative connection!

German artists Wiebke Wolkenhauer and Arne Gollasch have been visiting India for several years and, through mutual friends, our paths crossed during an exhibition here in Shantiniketan two winters back. They had reached out to see if Sanjoy and I would be interested in participating in an art project that involved a traveling suitcase. Now, many moons after the initial pitch, they have returned to India with this very beautiful Travelling Studio that will be in our possession for the next three months. This and two other suitcases will move from artist to artist around the world (as far as I'm aware, there have been other exchanges in Austria and the UK.

A gray arm wraps itself around the metal gridwork of an open window with two, long black feet teetering through into my office. There is a hanuman perched on my windowsill. The foreign word falls from my mouth easier than in my native tongue; gray langur. I also lean into the Bengali because I dislike the English homophone, langour. Listless is not at all a trait I associate with these quick-moving primates who can leap thirty feet in a single bound. They're an annoyance on my lane where human neighbors rattle sticks or shout in aggressive protest while thieves make off with vine-ripe eggplant or break some pipe or limb while jumping from branch to ledge.

Regret is not a constant. It comes and goes in pangs. During deep dive conversations, my dearest of friends often ask, do you regret it?-- not being a mother, closing my business, selling the house, dissolving a marriage, giving away my belongings, moving to India, etc. (Now that I think about it, even the not-so-dear ones have a way of getting around to this question as well.) What a complex residual of longing, regret. My usual reply sidesteps any true depth: a soft chuckle and 'it depends on the day…

in an obscure corner,stranded, waiting,devouring the memory of my country …my work has been wobbling lately between wonder and contempt. I try my best to tune out the chaos, but there's too much demanding attention. it isn't the time to roll over and look away. but space is needed. // there is a dove quietly nesting in my home. she brings me peace. a persistence to build, one twig at a time no matter how often I tried to shoo her away. pressing forward day after day. week after week.

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Dushtu is gone. Distemper took her away, limb by limb, over the course of a month. I named this street puppy shortly after her mother shifted the litter, one mouthful at a time, into my garage when their shelter was destroyed just before a cyclone saturated the region over several days. Dushtu translates as mischievous; a name she earned by being the feistiest pup with the first inclination to play. She was the only one named under my care, because she was the only one with a recognizable personality. When the weather finally dried out, the litter relocated to a cozy plot of land closer to the home of the family that cares for the mother.

You may be seeing bits and pieces of me scattered around as I shift to a new flow for sharing my work. Instead of playing by platform rules, I’m posting directly from my own website—where you can interact for as long as you’d like, beyond the limitations of an algorithm. So far more people are making their way to my site…(hello!) Several like-minded friends have been detaching from Meta and moving over to Bluesky (you can find me there, too– @amyparrish). But to completely cut off connection with thousands of people seemed to me like letting the big guy win. My hope is that this new approach will nurture a more authentic space for expression. Perhaps less breadth in reach, but in exchange for far greater depth. Come pay me a visit at www.amyparrish.com!

Meet my collaborator- the spotted dove perched up on the ceiling fan. For over a year she has carried twig after twig after twig into various rooms of my home, determined to build a nest here. I've been collecting each one and weaving them as a nest in a bamboo bird cage my spouse gifted on our wedding day. But yesterday, when I picked up her latest finds, I became mesmerized by the striking simplicity of their form. They reminded me of my own curations from nature (I've been known to drag in branches and stumps and sculptures of thorns to decorate my spaces...even going through a phase of pinning wasp nests in my hair and once accidentally releasing dozens upon dozens of praying mantis hatchlings into my home).

Exploring an enormously small world.