Wobbling Monk's guide to objects worth giving, told the way the Monk would tell it.

The Monk returns to a village that has grown while he was away, and finds that late and lost are different things.

By nightfall, the Monk had discovered that a ship possessed more ways to strike a man than a tavern brawl, and required considerably less provocation. A beam had taken his forehead. A loose bucket had pursued his ankle. The floor, which he had trusted on principle for most of his life, had withdrawn its support. He sat on his sea chest and reconsidered several opinions. At the Bent Thistle, he had spoken warmly of travel. There had been a fire then, and a second cup, and no s

A quiet reflection on abundance, disillusionment, and choosing humanity in a loud world, through the lens of the Wobbling Monk.

The monk did not notice the crack at first. It was a simple chalice, earthen, humble, stained by years of use. It had passed from hand to hand, from feast to fast, from laughter to silence. It had held wine for kings and water for wanderers. It had been raised in blessing and slammed down in frustration. It had been filled, emptied, and filled again. Only when the light struck it just right did the monk see the thin fracture running along its side. A flaw. A weakness. A failu

Join the Wobbling Monk as he chronicles his mystical and haphazard adventures