This Mother’s Day arrived quietly— without expectation, without celebration, without plans demanding to be fulfilled. I intended to visit my mother, stop by my grandmother’s resting place, then return home to finish the work waiting on me. But God. I saw my daughter. I held space with my grandsons. And whenever I agree to drive, my aunt turns the ride into a road trip— where laughter stretches for miles and joy finds us in the smallest moments. What began as an ordinary morning echoed in gratitude. I refused to give grief the final word. I would not sit at the table with what was broken, missing, or lost. Instead, I leaned into thanksgiving. For the first time, I did not mourn my grandmother’s death. I honored her life. The memories that still breathe. The lessons that still guide me. The love that still covers me like shelter in a storm. And on my drive home, I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw more than the road behind me. I saw distance traveled. Sacrifices survived. Prayers ...
There are sacred moments— quiet, unannounced— when I feel the subtle shift within me, a gentle tug at my awareness asking me to take inventory of the life I’ve arranged around my soul. So, quarterly, I let my gaze linger— not just seeing, but sensing— tracing the energy of my space, searching for what still breathes life into me, what still glows without effort, what still feels like home. Because I’ve learned— as a creative and feeler of currents— misalignment is no small disturbance. It is a quiet tremble beneath the ribs, a sacred unraveling that sends me into sudden rituals of release: weeding, shedding, discarding what no longer knows how to love me back. Not long ago, I turned my plants toward the south— toward a more generous sun— and offered them water drawn from cleaner intentions. And baby… they answered. Leaves lifted like open hands in praise, stems swaying in slow, worship rhythm— a choir of green harmony singing sunlight into my personal sanctuary. I stoo...