Slices of in-between,
small enough for a single sitting
In a quiet kitchen, a loaf rises slowly—where patience lingers, small rituals breathe, and the ordinary begins to feel alive. Written to remind us that “A season of shaping is never wasted, even if no one else knows what is taking form in you.”
A quiet hour in the therapist’s office becomes a still point—where memory stirs, presence deepens, and something unseen begins to shift. Written to remind us that "Even an ordinary chair can become holy when you let it hold your whole weight."
In the grove that survives the storm, a woman plants a seed of memory and loss.Written to remind us that “Even grief can carry seeds, and some of them are meant to rise where you cannot follow yet.”
An offering a quiet reassurance to anyone living in a pause between life stages: that even when you don’t know what you’re becoming, the act of tending something—wood, place, memory, others—is a way of continuing. Written to remind us that "You shouldn’t have to feel useless just because you’re in a season of waiting."
In the soft hush of a hallway that learned to become a room, the closed door holds more than silence—teaching the heart to pause, to listen, and to be met without moving an inch. Written to teach us that "Even a closed door can become a companion if you learn to sit beside it."
A quiet, living memory of the author’s father—how a small moment in the woods became a story planted in the body.
A slow meditation on relational ambiguity, inner attachment landscapes, and the quiet rituals that carry us through. Written to remind us that "You should not have to carry the weight of tangled relationships without a story and a ritual to accompany you."