<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?>
<rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom">
  <channel>
    <title>essays on Janna Tay</title>
    <link>https://janna.netlify.app/categories/essays/</link>
    <description>Recent content in essays on Janna Tay</description>
    <generator>Hugo -- gohugo.io</generator>
    <language>en-us</language>
    <copyright>© 2016-19 &lt;a href=&#39;https://github.com/siegerts/hugo-theme-basic&#39;&gt;Hugo Theme Basic&lt;/a&gt;. Made by &lt;a href=&#39;https://twitter.com/siegerts&#39;&gt;@siegerts&lt;/a&gt;.</copyright>
    <lastBuildDate>Thu, 10 Sep 2020 00:00:00 +0000</lastBuildDate>
    
	<atom:link href="https://janna.netlify.app/categories/essays/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
    
    
    <item>
      <title>Moving metaphors</title>
      <link>https://janna.netlify.app/post/moving-metaphors/</link>
      <pubDate>Thu, 10 Sep 2020 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
      
      <guid>https://janna.netlify.app/post/moving-metaphors/</guid>
      <description>What happens if what you once used to make sense of things no longer helps you make sense of things? What happens if the patterns and habits and metaphors we lean on do not serve us in the moments we need them? What happens if the stories we tell ourselves about our lives leave us lonely, wrestling with meaning? What then?
—Devin Kelly, “Out There: On Not Finishing”
Sabrina Orah Mark writes that the original Greek word, μεταφοραί (“metaphorai”), means “transports”.</description>
    </item>
    
    <item>
      <title>Prodigal</title>
      <link>https://janna.netlify.app/post/prodigal/</link>
      <pubDate>Wed, 18 Sep 2019 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
      
      <guid>https://janna.netlify.app/post/prodigal/</guid>
      <description>I can barely breathe walking up the road to the altar. My uncle has taken us to visit my grandfather’s grave in a massive cemetery called Nirvana, the entry to which resembles a holiday resort. A respite one never leaves. We’d stopped beforehand at the Saturday markets to buy kuih for breakfast and bouquets for the grave, and we eat at a weathered stone table while a family offers incense nearby.</description>
    </item>
    
  </channel>
</rss>