Short prose, raw observations, and creative reflections gathered along the journey.
We spend so much time standing against the perimeter of our own stories, waiting for someone to grant permission to step into the middle. What happens when you realize the room was built around you all along?
Like yeast in bread, grace requires warm space and time to quiet down. You cannot rush it, and you cannot force it to bloom in an atmosphere of fear.
Looking down at patchy farmland below, I am reminded that every boundary line on a map was drawn by a human hand—and can be erased by human imagination.