your cupped hands can only hold so much water

even as the ocean of life stretches ever before you

filling the horizon with what may be.

You desperately hold your palms together

even as the water seeps between your fingers

and pray that you can taste the ocean

in this small handful of water.

I’m a big fan of process-oriented goals. I may not have a destination in mind, but I have a strong sense of direction. I still do not have a solid vision for TCC in terms of ideal workforce size, financial ratios, or turnover. Instead, my vision has always tended to be a bit loosey-goosey, based entirely on what I find most enjoyable: building a team of highly competent editors with similar values to do work we take pride in. While the details regarding where and how this team would operate have been fuzzy, the values have always been clear:

1. A strong commitment to making every manuscript clear, communicative, and error-free
2. A culture of professionalism that revolves around mutual respect, transparent communication, judgement-free feedback, and reasonable flexibility
3. A focus on continually improving our skills and knowledge both through structured learning and broad curiosity
4. In all dealings with authors, remembering that they have something valuable to say to the world. Building relationships with them and being invested in their success and growth

Every year, we’ve been working on introducing systems to stabilise our workflow — financially and operationally. We’ve experimented with project management tools, chat bots, professional communication platforms, online ads, social media marketing, various quality control protocols, coworking offices, and different payment structures. In most cases, we returned to the simplest viable option. Many editors joined our team, some stayed a short while, and many have left. With some, it was a productive and enriching experience, with a few becoming good friends, with others, things simply did not work out. Clients too came in all sizes and shapes, from large MNCs with small blogposts to struggling PhD students with huge dissertations. Through constant and minute iteration, we evolved to build a reputation in a niche that I had no idea existed when I first started: editing academic (primarily policy) research in the social sciences, primarily the energy, environment, economics, and climate space.

Seven years of walking this path, we’ve come a long way. Over the last year, while my attention has been scattered between multiple family health crises, two households packed and moved, a wedding, and a pet lost and found again, TCC has continued to thrive. Because I could no longer look at every document that passed our doorway, the team scrutinised every word and comma. Clients wrote to the team instead of me directly. I didn’t check my inbox for a whole three weeks (I know, shocking!) TCC began operating as a business beyond my individual contribution. After seven long years, the whole was finally bigger than the parts. Without too much fanfare, I had morphed from freelancer to small business owner.

In a world awash with a new AI platform every month, running a small business can feel like you’re operating on a different timescale entirely — five years is barely enough to scratch the surface, and a decade passes in the blink of an eye. Somewhat by accident, I’ve founded a business that fits the shape of my life. I’ve found a group of people who believe in the same things I do. Who can step in when I need to step away. And I’m grateful to all those who took a chance along the way and made it possible. I don’t know where we are headed, but I do know the direction: towards building a team of highly skilled editors who do good work we can take pride in.

to contain explosions of flowers.

Bougainvilleas, hibiscus, and lantanas

marking the passing of seasons —

here is where I walked with my nephew

that summer when he was five years old

and still thought I was the coolest person ever.

Here is where an ex and I walked, early spring,

when I realised that fondness was not enough,

and I’d rather have love or nothing.

Here are the bougainvilleas from that afternoon

when I was so alone I thought I would die

but I didn’t and made tea instead.

I went out that afternoon looking for something,

and found it in this sprig of riotous purple

these flowers that bloom for no reason

except that they are alive.

It was a lesson in selfishness: why not take

comfort from the the world –

the wet nose of the neighbourhood dog

the arrow head of birds in flight in a blue afternoon sky –

when it gives so much so freely?

These dried flowers crowding between pages

marking the passage of a life as transient as their own –

may I be remembered as a life warmed by the same sun

and nourished by the same earth.

On afternoons when it feels like my mind wants to be anywhere but here,
away from this body, this moment in time, this material reality,
aswirl with imagined futures and painful questions from the past,
Tea is most often that stout friend who gently but firmly
leads me back to the present, turning my attention away
from what is ideal, towards what is important.

On some days it is just about companionship.
Watching the street corner from the balcony
as the monsoon clouds gather overhead,
Perched above people going about their daily lives,
Tea is that everpresent but silent friend
who witnesses the passing of my hours as I witness theirs.

There are others who are masters of standing still.
Tall like trees and as nourishing
content to feel the afternoon sun strike their faces
the soles of their feet burried deep in the earth they call home.

But some of us live feels perpetually imbalanced,
years spent in the moment between tumble and
impact, slipping sliding lurching grasping
but hands closing on nothing.

But tell me, what is dancing but imbalance mastered?
There is some beauty too in swerving ducking turning changing,
and in that lurching from mistake to possibility
seeking meaning but finding grace.

The ticking of clocks,

which seemed so loud only an hour ago,

is subsumed by this urban dawn chorus.

The city is slowly coming to life,

and I, having reached the farther shore of the long dark,

solitary in my small vessel but not alone,

retire to rest.

the heart knows what must be but

seeks comfort in fate. 

take it in

the figs are fallin

but there’s no point lookin

the sheets are crumpled

the books are in a tumble

but your skin is thirsty

and your eyes are hungry

your body speaks 

if only you’ll listen

baby take a breath

take a moment

the figs are fallin

and they’re not slowin

the road’s been long

and the maps are wrong 

you’re not here to stay 

and your stride is long

but you’ll see the crossroads 

if you stop to look around

baby let it go 

let it be 

the figs are fallin

though you’re tryin

a stranger answers

when your name is called

your glass is dirty

but the bar is full

and you’ll have stories

when you’re leavin

after I moved here, I threw open the doors and windows

and invited the thunder in for a cup of tea.

I would’ve enjoyed the company.

Alone in a house yet unmarked by grubby fingers or spilled dessert,

— remembering my mother shaking open her umbrella to survey

her garden, exchanging nods of greeting with the drenched flowers;

— remembering too many friends crowded under too few umbrellas,

elbows and laughter jostling for space in a golden night;

I look at the raintree glisten, drenched in the answer

it has relentlessly demanded of the stone-faced sky — crow slick

with surprise swooping and swiveling out of the way of their embrace —

and I let myself be swept away by this new rain in this new place

so that when the time comes, I may remember this place too,

with fondness.