THE WARMTH OF A KISS
A kiss is one of love’s purest expressions.
It arrives in many forms,
far beyond romance or intimacy.
Life gathers them quietly,
storing each one like a pressed flower
between the pages of memory.
I remember the kisses of loved ones
who have long since passed.
My grandfather’s came with a gentle pinch upon the cheek,
a small extra gesture of affection
that never failed to leave me smiling.
In my Italian family, kisses were exchanged on both cheeks, a greeting wrapped in warmth, and from my French relatives came an even more elaborate version—one kiss on a cheek, then the other, and then back again, repeated in a graceful rhythm of four kisses. It was never hurried. It felt like affection taking its time, a beautiful ritual of connection passed from generation to generation.
I remember the Eskimo kisses from my aunt,
little playful nudges of the nose,
lighthearted and tender,
the kind of affection that never fades from memory.
Yet the kisses I treasure most now
are the countless ones given to the babies in my life.
There is a sweetness to a newborn
that exists nowhere else on earth.
Their scent is its own kind of blessing.
I often thought perhaps God created it that way—
a fragrance gentle enough
to calm a restless child,
yet powerful enough
to comfort the one holding them.
And those tiny toes.
How grateful I was for all ten of them,
kissing each one again and again
as though they were treasures.
And they were.
Those little toes eventually disappeared
into boys’ sneakers,
yet somehow the kisses and hugs
became even more precious with time.
There were bedtime kisses
after favorite stories,
afterschool embraces,
moments so ordinary
they became unforgettable.
One remains as clear as a photograph.
A first grader spotted me waiting outside school
and came running with complete abandon,
launching himself into my arms.
The force of his love knocked us both backward,
and there we were,
lying flat upon the sidewalk,
laughing together beneath the sky.
The moment lasted only seconds.
The memory has lasted a lifetime.
That is the gift of a kiss.
It is never simply a touch.
It's a greeting,
a comfort,
a memory,
It is a blessing.
And long after the lips have parted,
the warmth remains.
Ripples
I sit beside a quiet lake,
watching the water speak in circles.
A breeze touches its surface,
and something moves outward,
expanding beyond the place it began.
And I remember.
Not a memory exactly,
but a feeling.
A chill once traveled through me,
soft and sudden,
leaving behind an imprint
that time could not fully erase.
The lake holds its ripples.
I hold mine.
And as I watch the water move,
I wonder if the world is filled
with these same expressions—
one body speaking to another,
one form recognizing itself
in a different shape.
The water shivers beneath the sky.
The leaves tremble in the trees.
The heart stirs within the chest.
Different movements,
yet somehow familiar.
Perhaps nothing is truly silent.
Perhaps everything is expressing itself,
revealing its nature in the only way it can.
The lake through its ripples.
The wind through its wandering.
The earth through its seasons.
The soul through its feelings.
And maybe what we call recognition
is simply the moment
one expression meets another
and quietly whispers,
“I know that movement.”
For I have carried it too.
And there, between the water and myself,
no answers arrive.
Only the gentle awareness
that what moves through the lake,
Movement, ripples…
moves through me.
And what moves through me
the quiet wonder..
My expression…
“Can this expression of myself be yet only one of many reflections all around me?
That Girl
I once knew a girl who looked into the world with wonder and dreams without end.
From faraway lands that she hoped one day to touch came endless smiles just from imagining them.
She wondered about almost everything, questions that never seemed to end. The stars, the oceans, and Humans, understanding them and the meaning hidden quietly inside life itself.
To her, life was so full of color, so full of life. Even ordinary moments seemed to carry something waiting to be discovered.
She moved through the world with a heart still open enough to believe there was always more —more beauty, more meaning,more love, more to understand.
And maybe that was the deepest part of her—not simply dreaming, but the way she allowed herself to feel wonder so completely.
Because some souls are born not only to live life, but to truly see it
Full of color.. Full of Life…
Love of Freedom
There are souls
that move through life
like water through a quiet stream—
not forcing direction,
yet always finding their way.
Not because life spared them,
but because they learned
how to bend without breaking,
how to answer hardship
without losing themselves.
They carry responsibility
not as a burden,
but as part of their character.
A steadiness formed
through consequence,
through adjustment,
through choosing the higher path
again and again.
And somehow,
within that seriousness,
they still know how to live.
They pause for the evening air,
notice the shift of birds,
the movement of trees,
the stillness between sounds.
They belong to the world around them
because they are fully present within it.
Even in solitude
they do not seem alone.
The night sky keeps them company.
The wind speaks enough.
The quiet itself becomes a companion.
Perhaps that is freedom—
not escape,
not detachment,
but remaining true to oneself
through every season of life.
And when such freedom is witnessed,
it is loved carefully.
For love, in its purest form,
does not seek to possess
what it admires.
It simply stands beside it
with reverence,
hoping never to extinguish
the very light
that made it beautiful.
The Neon Moon
A neon moon is not the moon as it is…
it is the moon felt through longing.
It glows—not softly like nature intended,
but vividly, almost electrically—
as if emotion itself has been lit from within.
It hangs in the sky like a sign,
not of the heavens,
but of memory…
of late nights,
of quiet roads,
of thoughts that do not sleep.
A neon moon feels unnatural, yet intimate—
bright, yet surrounded by darkness—
beautiful, but touched with loneliness.
It appears in the moments
when you are awake longer than you planned,
when your heart is somewhere else,
when something inside you is glowing
but no one else can see it.
It belongs to midnight diners,
empty highways,
songs playing softly in the background,
and the spaces where the world feels paused—
but your soul is not.
If the natural moon is peace,
the neon moon is feeling amplified.
It does not just light the night…
it reveals what the night is holding.
Transparent
I know I am here,
holding myself so I do not disappear.
Not again.
I will always recognize myself now,
never searching in places where I do not exist.
Why would I,
when I know that is not where I am meant to dwell?
So I follow the sun each day,
letting its light remind me of what is real,
and I rest when the moon begins to glow,
trusting the night to hold what the day cannot.
Yet still, a quiet wonder remains—
am I fully here,
or only moving through this life
like something transparent,
felt more than seen?
THE ECHO
I did not seek it,
yet it found me
in the quiet places
where whispers
had long been silenced.
A stranger,
a voice
that felt like a melody—
one I had forgotten,
a song from another life,
another time.
Eyes
in which I caught
a glimpse of myself.
I cannot reach
the echo
that stirs my soul awake.
Only a echo,
a whisper,
an ache,
a love
I hold.
BEFORE THE FIRST STROKE
So many colors to paint with,
yet as the artist sees the image upon the blank canvas,
the bright whiteness strains the perception of the vision.
Rather than stroke the painter’s brush too quickly,
creation may become more meaningful
when one steps forward and holds the brush still—
before the bristles touch the pure white canvas.
There is a hesitation,
a pause not to mark too soon
what possibility is still waiting to become.
In that moment of stillness
the artist searches not for what is already known,
but for what may yet be imagined.
And when even the smallest stroke of color
begins the process,
creation and inspiration
walk hand in hand.
Perhaps life is not so different from the blank canvas.
We stand before it with many colors within us—memories, hopes, pain, love, and imagination.
Yet wisdom may be found in the moment before we begin, when we pause long enough to feel what truly belongs on the canvas of our lives.
And when the first quiet stroke finally appears, it is not rushed or forced, but placed with intention, allowing creation itself to gently guide what comes next.
God's Love
Without needing to explain or understand fully
True Love for what it is, I have come to see-through Love itself-that it resists explanation.
It can only be accepted.
How could it not be, when it sits as clearly
as any other form of creation in this world?
It is born-a quiet birth
that arrives already designed in form, as if Love holds its own divine blueprint.
Like a seed, small but certain,
it carries the full knowing of its own growth.
And though unseen,
it is just as real as anything that can be seen.
It moves not with fear, but with presence-
a mystery that roots itself in the unseen soil of the soul, and rises,
without needing to be understood, only felt.
God's True Gift
Looking Up
Can I possibly describe the sun
from where I’m standing on earth?
I would not speak of its scorching heat
or the blinding light I cannot escape.
Instead, I would imagine the force of it —
the unseen power of its energy,
how it fills all living things with breath,
how its rays awaken whatever they touch.
As the moon finds a different side of me.
Its soft glow carries a tenderness
the sun does not ask for.
A quiet light of peace and tranquility,
a glowing sphere that captures my attention
and holds it —
as if it finds me
while I stand so far away.
The soil beneath my feet
keeps gravity steady,
holds me in place,
reminds me where I belong.
And the starry night —
those distant sparkles scattered across the dark —
feel like hidden treasure
reaching from far away,
waiting for me to notice
how infinite our world truly is
when I keep my eyes looking up.
Hopes and Dreams
Can hopes and dreams be made in the moment,
stitched from breath and light and quiet belief.
Where They rise softly with the morning,
fragile as dew on the edge of becoming.
And when the hours pass
without you beside them,
without your shadow crossing mine,
I feel a small mourning in each sunset.
It is not loud.
It does not beg.
It simply sits with me—
at the table, in the car,
in the space where laughter might have landed.
My dreams are born daily,
but so is the grief
of watching them walk through the day
without your hand in them.
Still, hope returns each morning
as faithfully as light—
because even in your absence
the moment remembers
what it was made to hold.
In My World
In my world I have moments —
Stillness, that remind me I am here.
In my world I have sunshine —
light that reaches even the corners.
In my world I have laughter —
the kind that rises without permission.
In my world I have love —
not loud, but steady.
In my world I am blessed —
even when I forget to notice.
In my world I have faith —
the quiet knowing beneath everything.
In my world I am safe —
held by what is greater than fear.
In my world I am calm —
even when winds move outside.
In my world I have peace —
not borrowed, but built within.
In my world I am grateful —
for breath, for being here today.
In my world I find happiness —
not in perfection, but in presence.
In my world I have life —
full, imperfect, alive.
In my world I have Jesus —
my anchor, my covering, my truth.
In my world I have You —
a gift I do not take lightly.
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.
