Words
Every beginning is born from silence.
Short essays on stillness, craft, and the warmth of making.
Persimmon — Small Gratitudes
On a quiet branch, a single fruit holds the late light. It asks for nothing. It compares itself to no one.
Looking, I felt a simple thank you rise — to the earth that bears, to time that ripens without hurry. In that small orange glow, the noise of “how I appear” thinned, and something gentler stayed.
To live like this: present, unmeasured — enough.
Silver Grass — A Quiet Field
Evening gathers along the river. Blades of silver grass lean into the wind — a chorus without words.
I stand in the hush between day and night, listening. The field breathes; I remember to do the same. Softness can be strong. Quiet can carry.
When Light Returns
At the edge of dusk, wild daisies kept a tender fire. Not bright, not loud — enough to hold the coming night.
They remind me: endings are not erasures. Inside what is fading, the next beginning waits.
In that gentle light, a quiet gratitude returns: to be alive, to breathe, and to trust that light will find its way back, softly.
Every light leaves a trace — softly, in silence.