Imagine That
How can I describe the air that surrounds us
I try—
but there are no words.
Only a presence.
Air that holds gravity.
Not separate from me,
a part of me,
my breath.
When I step outside, it comforts me,
as if God made a blanket out of air
and placed it gently over everything.
And when I think about it this way,
I realize—
this is only how the air makes me feel.
Imagine so many ways to see creation
What if we are not awake enough
to see what is in front of us.
To wonder.
Yes, I know I can be extreme
when I ask you to imagine
being inside of a raindrop—
but that is exactly the kind of
wonder that I mean.
Are we losing this
essential part of creativity.
So many reality games,
so many devices.
Helpful, yes.
Needed, now.
But are they replacing
what I will never forget.
Night skies.
Lying flat on cool grass.
Staring into darkness
until the stars became magical.
I would get lost.
I hope humanity does not leave behind
creative play with themselves.
I hope we do not let screens
occupy every empty space
where imagination once lived.
So sad—
so few see it coming.
THE ESSENCE OF LIGHT
The essence of Light did not arrive alone.
It came forth from love,
and needed darkness
so it could be seen.
Light has never been singular.
It has always spoken in many tongues.
It lifts itself just above the shoreline at dusk,
where water learns how to let go of the sun.
It slips through a curtain
before the body remembers the day.
It warms the soul beneath a summer sky,
yet still finds its way
through a broken window.
It stands watch in the distance,
a lighthouse holding its breath
until ships remember where they are.
It stays close to the fire,
burning low,
keeping hands alive through the night.
Light does not insist on one meaning.
It offers itself endlessly.
And I believe
that the first light ever spoken
was not created apart from God,
but mirrored from Him—
a reflection of what love looks like
when it wants to be known.
Beneath the Snow 🌹
A seed can be planted deep,
hidden from the self—
far enough that the heart protects it
from the harshness of life.
It stays hidden,
safe from the world’s distorted version of love.
Untouched,
in God’s hand, protected.
Without light it does not grow,
as no seed can sprout
in darkness alone.
Yet by God’s wonders,
as the warmth of the sun
finds a lost seed beneath the snow,
so too it finds its way—
and in the turning of the season,
the seed becomes a rose.
TO HOLD WHAT’S REAL
We mirror what is real
because we do not know how to turn away.
In a world that moves quickly past feeling,
that names instead of listens,
that explains instead of touching,
this way of seeing can feel heavy.
Not because it wounds us —
but because it is honest.
We feel what is present.
We notice what is missing.
We sense the quiet places
where empathy lives.
Not a burden.
a knowing.
Still, we are learning
that mirrors are not meant to carry weight.
They reflect.
They return things to their source.
We are not here to hold the world’s ache,
only to witness it
without becoming it.
So when tenderness rises,
let it move through us
like light through glass —
clear,
unbroken,
free.
We choose carefully
where our softness rests.
Not every room is a sanctuary.
Not every hand knows how to receive.
Not in closing our hearts.
But honoring them.
We remain real
in a world that forgets how.
And when it feels lonely,
we remember:
Truth does not belong to us.
It passes through,
uses our breath,
and returns to itself.
The Heart of the Ocean
The heart of the ocean
is not the wave—
it is the pause before it rises,
the breath held by the moon
just before letting go.
It lives where blue turns eternal,
where light forgets its name
and silence becomes a language
only the soul can hear.
There, time loosens its grip.
Currents kneel in devotion,
salt remembers every body
that ever wept into the world,
and nothing is lost—
grief is carried, not erased.
The ocean’s heart loves without edges.
It gathers what falls—
broken ships, broken prayers,
the soft ache of longing
that never learned how to leave.
Storms may scar the surface,
but beneath them
the heart keeps rhythm—
a low, endless hymn
teaching water how to endure
without turning to stone.
If you place your ear
against the night,
against your own chest,
you will hear it—
that ancient, tidal knowing
that love is deepest
where it is unseen,
and strongest
where it is still.
SWAY
Sway
It is a dance without a floor,
without a count,
without an audience.
Sway begins where certainty loosens—
in the soft hinge of the hips,
in the quiet agreement between breath and gravity.
One foot remembers the earth
while the other tests the air.
Neither rushes.
Neither insists.
There is no lead,
only listening.
No destination,
only response.
The body leans just enough
to feel the promise of being caught—
by rhythm,
by love,
by God.
Sway is the movement of trust made visible.
The yes that does not speak.
The prayer that rocks instead of kneels.
It is how reeds worship the wind.
How a mother keeps time with a child’s sleep.
How the soul stays upright
while allowing itself to feel.
Sway does not advance.
It abides.
And in that staying,
everything begins.
Can Love Be Understood in Brokenness — Part Two
“The kingdom of God does not come with observation; nor will they say, ‘See here!’ or ‘See there!’ For indeed, the kingdom of God is within you.”
— Luke 17:20–21
There is a truth in these words spoken by Jesus—not only an invitation to walk on higher ground, but a reminder of something already embedded within us. Something essential. Something purposeful. Perhaps it is part of our very design, woven into our spiritual DNA.
What if understanding was never meant to remain metaphorical, but was intended to be lived as an inner compass—crafted by God to guide us toward truth? When we are unaware of that compass, or choose to ignore it because it conflicts with the life we have been living, we may feel resistance. Sometimes that resistance is inherited, unintentionally passed down through generations. Yet even then, it is not impossible to work through—if we are willing.
Reaching deeper into ourselves can be unsettling, especially when what we find does not align with who we have been until now. Change can be challenging. Change requires time. Patience. Trust. Looking within and noticing the fine details of our design sounds simple, but perhaps God never intended it to be rushed or forced.
I believe there is meaning in the parables Jesus left behind—parables that theologians have studied and debated for centuries. But what if the truth is simpler than we think? What if the message is not meant to complicate, but to restore?
What if we were never meant to live in constant stress, but in peace?
Peace does not always arrive because life is pleasing or orderly. It is a state that exists beyond circumstance—a peace that Jesus embodied, and one that other awakened souls throughout history have mastered. It is not passive, nor fragile. It is grounded.
Imagine a flower still in bud. If we become anxious for it to bloom and try to force it open before its time, we are left with scattered petals, not the full expression of what it was meant to become. Nature does not hurry itself. A flower blooms when ready. A river flows toward a greater body of water without resistance. There is no striving—only trust in its design.
Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when He said the kingdom of God lives within us.
When we find our inner place of peace, we are no longer called to force outcomes. We are called to trust. Just as a bud blooms in its own time, so does life unfold. And within that unfolding, meaning reveals itself—not through control, but through alignment.
Can we trust time? Can we trust God?
If the world learned to move with the flow of life rather than against it, we might recognize the flower when it is ready to be picked. And in understanding ourselves this way, our choices would naturally shift. We would begin to experience life as God intended—not fractured, not rushed, but whole.
To master this level of understanding, life can be fulfilling and enriched without force—natural, as it was always meant to be.
Like a flower in its most beautiful form—full of color, fragrance, and purpose.
Can Love Be Understood in Brokenness?
Some paths exist not to be smooth, but to reveal misunderstanding. And misunderstanding, when left unseen, can quietly become disconnection. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.
Conflict does not always begin where we think it does. Often, it arises from a place much older than the relationship itself—an inner layer that was injured long before another ever walked beside us. These wounds can live hidden, not only from others, but even from ourselves. They shape how we listen, how we react, and how we love.
We can see this reflected in the world around us. Happiness is constantly chased, yet rarely understood. Many of us have learned how to live with discontent, becoming skilled at numbing rather than healing. Discontent, when ignored, does not simply disappear. It can settle into the body, quietly turning into dis-ease—manifesting as pain, illness, or exhaustion. While numbing may temporarily dull the ache, awareness has the potential to reveal what the pain is asking us to understand.
So why are so many of us in conflict—not only within ourselves, but with those who walk closest to us? How do we resolve conflict when change is needed, yet feels impossible? Inner change is rarely easy, especially when we are unaware of what we are protecting or avoiding.
Perhaps we are missing something essential in our understanding of happiness. We often look for it outside of ourselves or in temporary gratification. There are many things to acquire, many experiences to chase, many distractions that promise fulfillment. Yet none of these can truly fill an inner void that was never meant to be filled externally.
Relationships, then, must be held with care. They are not meant to complete us, but to reflect us—to reveal both love and the places still asking for healing. Maybe the world does not need another pursuit, another answer, or another escape. Maybe it needs a deeper willingness to look inward.
Jesus spoke directly to this truth when He said:
“The kingdom of God does not come with observation; nor will they say, ‘See here!’ or ‘See there!’ For indeed, the kingdom of God is within you.”
— Luke 17:20–21
If love is to be understood—even in brokenness—it must begin within.
In knowing yourself, you can then recognize what you’re seeking. Not as perfection, but as awareness. Not as avoidance of pain, but as the courage to meet it. When we look within, we may find that what we have been searching for in others, in circumstances, and in the world, has always been quietly waiting there.
What the Eyes Can Tell
There are words that tell
what at times cannot be made sense of,
sounds formed to touch what has no name
A story too long to tell,
with no beginning or end,
moving without time,
remembered without measure
Some stories are hard to tell,
yet are never forgotten,
they linger beneath the spoken,
resting where memory becomes knowing
For when you come by a story as this,
it does not call for explanation
or ask to be understood
It waits quietly,
until the moment you see it—
for it is one only the Eyes can tell
If I Could Be Read
If I could open myself as if I were pages in a book, I would not ask to be understood through assumption. I would ask to be read. Each word would carry its own weight, telling the story of who I am without apology or defense.
If I could draw myself, there would be no need to explain the lines. They would not blur into someone else’s meaning. The shape would be honest. The colors exact. There would be no room for misunderstanding, because what was placed before the eyes would be what truly exists.
What would the story tell if there were no interpretation, only distinction?
A difference between what I see and what is imagined.
Between what I know and what is projected.
Between how I feel and how it is received.
Perhaps it would tell the truth quietly.
That I am not hidden—I am simply precise.
That my depth is not confusion, but clarity that asks for presence.
That to know me requires attention, not assumption.
And in that telling, the story would not ask to be rewritten.
It would ask only to be witnessed.
My Christmas Dream
I awoke Christmas morning
with songs on my mind,
not of sugar plums dancing
nor reindeer in line.
But something far softer
began rising in me,
wrapping around
like a warm melody.
A voice so familiar—
not a jolly Ho Ho—
no, this one far deeper
than most hearts ever know.
It wasn’t forced,
nor harsh in its tone;
a truth…from before, one
I always had known.
From long ago,
I made one request—
a love only God could see,
where no one would find it
unless it was blessed.
And who better to find it—
who’d surely know, too—
that the love that I carry
is the love God once grew.
I gave it to Him,
trusting one distant day,
He’d send it back gently
in His chosen way.
You see, I hid it so deeply,
That no one else could unwind
the longing I folded
in the quiet of my mind.
A secret petition,
a prayer sealed tight,
a wish wrapped in childhood
and tucked out of sight.
Yet on Christmas morning,
as that voice returned near,
I felt the old whisper
I once asked Him to hear.
And there in the stillness,
I knew it was true—
God never forgot
what my young heart once knew.
MY SONG
How can a song capture the very essence of who you are?
The melody plays softly, and I get lost in the movement it awakens inside me,
as though it is playing within my own body.
When the lyrics follow the music, they tell a story I feel I have lived.
Whatever rises in my mind as it becomes a song, I feel each word
from the perspective of the artist.
Those words came from someone so inspired they poured straight from the heart—
and somehow, they arrive already knowing mine.
Cherished Piece
How do I describe what’s missing?
I quiet the noise all around me, hoping in silence it will surface.
But I hear not a sound, yet I feel a pull, an ache,
as if this empty space could scream it out.
So I keep it company.
I hold it as if it is something so valuable.
God Himself gave me this empty space, saying,
here is where I lie,
here is where you will know the importance of what’s missing.
Hold it,
and know only I will fill the emptiness,
for only I can give you what you cannot put into words,
for such words live only where I place them
for you to know.
So I gently hold this cherished space,
where only God will find it.
My heart will keep it,
and it will stay warm.
Mystery
There is a place within me
where time does not move,
where the soul kneels without effort
and listens for what cannot be spoken.
It is here
your name rises like incense,
not called,
but remembered.
Here, love is not a feeling,
but a language older than breath—
a current the heart recognizes
before the mind wakes.
I do not reach outward.
I simply open.
And in the opening,
something eternal unfolds.
It is the hush of God,
the quiet pulse of destiny,
the echo of a bond
written long before we understood its shape.
This devotion I chose,
and I too am chosen.
It is known
A thread that binds what was scattered,
the fire that burns without consuming,
the mystery that reveals itself
only to those who wait in stillness.
Timeless.
Holy.
A Mystery.
Forever..
And always,
…always True.
SOMEWHERE IN TIME
Somewhere in time,
it continues.
Somewhere in time,
I see you.
Not new—
oh no—
quite the opposite—
Ancient.
I am not alone in this moment.
I sit here with you,
the one who finds me
no matter where time falls.
Wherever it lands,
you are with me there.
I know better now
than to search with my eyes.
I have searched a lifetime—
and lifetimes—
for you.
I have learned how to ease the ache,
yet I know it will always remain.
Not as punishment,
but as a Gift, from God.
And so I wear it as part of who I Am.
Life is filled with lessons, some by receiving,
some are found in what’s missing, trusting
only God is the cure.
So I remain in this stillness.
When it lingers beyond,
I hold myself gently,
as one who understands
what the soul carries.
And I pray—
Without urgency,
but with Trust—
that the wind will find you,
and carry to You
the Truth of your own Desires.
LIFE
Life.
Such a word.
Meant to be lived in so many ways.
That’s why no two are the same.
What I find interesting is when you look back and see so many angles of the road you’ve traveled.
Some highs, other lows, yet always forward.
And when looking back, you see clearly —
with eyes open —
but at times, those same eyes were shut.
Why is this the way life flows?
Why can’t we look ahead, see what we want,
and life simply follows?
Is this a mystery that only I wonder?
Or do others also become aware
of where they are going?
The Concept of Time
How can I even begin
to explain the concept of time?
It does not run
in the direction of the ordinary.
I watch life rush past me—
morning into night,
days into years—
but within my spirit,
time takes a different shape.
It is not ruled
by the hands of a clock,
but by the hands of God.
Should this surprise me?
When God claimed this world
through His creation,
His intentions were never bound
to the limits we see today.
We are of the earth—
yes—
but we are also of Him.
So is it any wonder
that He lives within my heart?
That although I walk this world
as human,
my heart belongs to God?
And if my heart is His,
then it is divine—
carrying love
far too vast
for ordinary understanding.
How could a human heart
ever hold a love
so immeasurable?
Perhaps God placed His own
within us—
so we could.
Is this why love is so precious—
because God touched it first?
And when we are distanced
from a love like that,
it’s no surprise the ache
is felt so deeply.
Could it be the signal
God wove into us—
a holy warning
that something sacred
Is it too far from our hearts?
That the soul recognizes
what the mind tries to explain away,
and pain becomes the language
that says,
“Love belongs closer than this.”
For there is no greater joy
than to live with love found—
close as a breath away.
What does that closeness feel like?
It feels like breath learning its purpose.
Like warmth entering places
you forgot were cold.
It feels like the heart is expanding
without asking permission—
as if love itself
is making room to live.
It feels like knowing
before understanding,
like recognition
without reason.
It feels like silence
that speaks louder
than anything you’ve ever heard.
Like your soul finally sitting
in the seat it was always meant for.
It feels like God
wrote a name inside you
long ago—
and now
you can finally hear it.
Life was never meant to be ordinary—
could this be the outcome
of forgetting Eden?
For we were born
from a place where God walked with us,
where love was language,
and wonder was the air we breathed.
But somewhere along the journey,
we learned smallness.
We learned rules and limits,
fear and forgetting.
We learned to shrink
a divine existence
into something manageable.
Yet the heart remembers
what the mind has buried.
It remembers the garden—
the wholeness, the holiness,
the love that needed no proof.
And every time love draws near,
every time wonder awakens,
every time the soul refuses
to settle for ordinary—
that is Eden
calling us back.
Not to a place,
but to a truth:
We were created
for more.
The Gift of Christmas
It can’t only be the purity of white snow,
as if a winter wonderland alone could carry the weight
of something holy.
Is it found in the eyes of a child,
wide with wonder,
waiting for the man with the white beard
to slip rewards of goodness into a stocking?
Is it hidden in the warmth of tree lights
that glow like tiny memories,
or in the soft melody of Silent Night
that once felt like it healed the whole world?
These things have followed me all my life —
traditions, rituals, colors, songs —
and yet something in me knows
the true gift of Christmas
was never wrapped in any of them.
Somewhere, along the years,
the familiar glow dimmed.
Not gone — just quiet.
As if life became heavier
than twinkling lights could lift.
As if the places where magic once lived
have been rearranged by loss,
by change,
by a heart that has seen too much
and still carries on.
But Christmas…
the real Christmas…
is Love.
Not the decorated kind,
not the packaged kind,
not the performed kind.
It is the love that breathes quietly,
that remembers who we miss,
that aches and hopes at the same time,
that whispers of heaven
in ways the world cannot understand.
So why has the light grown dim?
Maybe because the older we become,
the more we learn that the spirit of Christmas
is not something we feel —
it’s something we open to.
Maybe it isn’t a switch
waiting to be flipped back on.
Perhaps it is a flame,
a love remembered,
a presence missed.
The gift of Christmas is not lost.
It is simply deeper now,
hiding beneath the noiseless places,
waiting for the Heart that has lived,
loved,
broken,
and risen
to notice its quiet glow again.
And when it returns —
as softly as snowfall,
as gently as breath —
you will know.
Because Christmas lives
where love lives.
And love,
no matter how quiet,
never goes dark.
Where Do I Place Myself
Where do I place myself
when I can no longer see
the ordinary in my day?
How do I explain logic
when truth has grown larger
than what ordinary minds
can comprehend?
My language isn’t meant for all—
yet my heart insists
my words are meant
to be heard.
It’s no wonder
I cannot find rest
away from the essence
that found me—
the essence that rooted itself
so deep within
that separation
is no longer possible.
Love…
in its purest form—
the kind that expands
what reality allows,
the kind that transforms
the ordinary
into revelation.
There Must Be Just Cause
for why I know separation—
an ache imprinted deep
into the center of my soul.
For how could one truly taste joy
without enduring distance
from the very essence of it?
And yet, even in separation,
I feel its proximity—
as close as a breath away.
The eyes of love lift my spirit,
pull me toward the heavens within,
and bring me face-to-face
with the mirror of my Soul.
A THANKFUL HEART
How can I express what thankfulness I have within my heart?
Where does it even begin to make sense?
I realize that it never started with all the extra things we collect in this life.
It didn’t begin with the little material things
that we become accustomed to having—
yes, they are nice, and sometimes useful—
but are they truly needed?
Thankfulness must go deeper than what we can hold.
Are we thankful for the day?
For the breath that wakes us again?
For the love that remains even when life changes?
Are we thankful for the upcoming season—
as if each new season guarantees a future—
or for the start of New Years,
when the year ahead is not promised,
only hoped for?
The new year does not arrive because we deserve it.
It arrives because grace allows it.
We enter another year not by achievement,
but by mercy—
a mercy that carried us through
the moments we weren’t sure we would survive,
the challenges we didn’t see coming,
the nights we prayed for morning.
And so thankfulness begins right here,
in the realization that we made it.
That time has allowed us another chance
to love,
to grow,
to believe again.
True gratitude is not reflected in what we own,
but in the miracle
that we are still here
to hope for what comes next.
That is where thankfulness lives—
in the heart that recognizes
another year is not a guarantee…
it is a gift.
