What do we carve into when life itself is fleeting? Run your palm against Nevada’s fire-colored stone and feel the story pulsing beneath 🪨🔥. The petroglyphs scattered across the wilderness returned me to a child’s morning in East Java 🚲. I pedaled toward the mountain and found broken slabs at the foot of the hill. To my young eyes, the intact base resembled a fragment of gapura (gate) of ancient Hindu temples. A first glimpse of stone carrying memory in a home that unfolded between two worlds. The taste of Mom’s chocolate hagelslag on buttered bread 🍞🍫 belonged to one, the call to prayer to another 🕌. Under the glow of an oil lamp, the looping lines of ꦲꦤꦕꦫꦏ (Hanacaraka), the old Javanese script flowed smooth across the page. Ink stained my fingers, spreading across the notebook until the world spilled past the classroom walls. A child’s hand pressing pen to paper became a seeker’s hand reaching for relics.  These hands have since found their way through the chambers of Newgra...