The mountains do not flinch
at what the world has done.
They hold their silence
in granite outcroppings—
scarred, still,
older than sorrow,
yet never indifferent to it.

She came to the ridge
where the cold wind weaves
between trees older than memory.
It touched her like a voice—
not kind,
not cruel,
just knowing.

And that knowing
wrapped around her ribs
like a truth she never chose to carry.

She stood beneath the pines,
her face turned to sky,
and the weight of it all
finally broke through—
tears carving warmth
into cheeks too long hardened.

Then her head
pressed to my chest—
as if to ask
if anything was strong enough
to stay.

And I knew.
I was built for this.
To stand right here.
To hold what broke her
and not let it fall further.

The wind moved on—
but something stayed:
a stillness
a hush

a warmth in the marrow
of what had once been frozen.


Not every wind will cut so cold.
Not every ache will hold.
And not everything un-beautiful
was meant to remain that way.

Tomorrow, the trees will still be here.
And the creek will still run clear.
But so will she—
with something inside
that now knows:

even the wounded
can become
the most beautiful thing
the mountains have ever seen.

Cada 15 es un recordatorio;
Para que los recuerdos sean recordados;
Para que las oraciones sean murmuradas;
Y para que el amor quede enterrado en las brasas.

(for the one who remembered)

She comes barefoot—
no veil, no deflection,
no incantations from the high places
to conjure what love has already given.

She comes with smoke in her hair
and ash on her cheek—
but it is not the ash of shame.

It is the ash of sacrifice.

The Asherah poles still burn behind her,
splintering one by one
as she walks away
from the counterfeit embrace
that always left her colder.

She does not flinch at the sight of the altar.
She runs.

And with both hands—
those beautiful, once-bound hands—
she grabs the horns.

She grabs them.

Shakes them;
not to demand,
but to worship—
not to protest,
but to pour out
what only now she knows she carried.

Because now she knows
she is Loved.
Not as a symbol.
Not as an echo.
Not as someone to fix
or someone to use.

But as herself.

The scent of her offering rises—
not of perfection,
but of devotion.

Not the blood of goats,
but the tears of a woman
who thought she had been lost too long
to be welcomed home.

The Lord does not turn His face away.
He draws near.

Because this—
THIS
is the aroma that pleases Him most:

Not the pageantry of idols,
but the girl
who brings her whole ache
and says,

"Thank you for loving who I am—
and for showing me that who I am
is someone to be loved."

The horns tremble
under the weight of such truth.

And heaven,
silent for so long,
weeps with her—

not because she was far gone,
but because she finally came close.

And dared to believe.

for the Pearl, unearthed

They said the field was empty,
that the rocks had been picked clean.
But something in the silence
called your name through layers, unseen.

We did not dig for treasure.
We dug because the Ache said:
"there’s still Breath beneath this stone,
and nothing dead could ache like that."

You were not buried by accident.
Much was done to you—
bricks laid by the hands of others,
each one a silence,
each one a theft.
And still,
there were moments
you helped the darkness cover you,
not from guilt,

but from grief too great to name.

Trauma laid the bricks.
Exploitation mixed the mortar.
But it was the ache to survive
that sealed you in.

Two halves of the shell—
one built by the world,
the other by you.

And still…
the Light found the crack.

Not with shouts.
Not with demands.
But with the quiet hand
of one who remembered
what you forgot:

That pearls are made in the dark,
under pressure,
in hidden chambers of pain.

That their shine
is not despite the wounding—
but because of it.

We pulled rock after rock,
not for reward,
but because the echo was still there—
the low hum
of something unclaimed
and yet completely whole.

You are not rubble.
You are treasure unearthed.
And your worth was never in what covered you,
but in what was forming underneath.

Let your light rest on your own shoulders.
Let the sky remember its end.
Let every crack you carry
be proof that you were never empty..

Only buried.
Only becoming.

And now,
still shining.

I move through the day
with my headphones on—
not just for the music,

but for the remembering.

A wire,
a pulse,
a quiet line
that tethers me

to the hush on the other side.

I charge them every night—
because she might need
the warmth of soundless presence,
the kind that doesn’t reach in,

   but wraps around.

She is hidden,
but not gone.

She is beneath
the hush of fabric and mercy,
where no eyes ****,

no explanations are required.

And I—
I go on,
lifting and lowering weight,
cutting silence with work,

holding space

for the one who is learning;
that Light can contain her
without devouring.


So I charge the headphones.
I keep the line open.
And I carry her
as lightly as I can,
because right now—

   that is how
   love breathes.

And underneath this blanket
of containment,
she is unfolding.

There is a safety here
that her spirit
so desperately needs..


As she learns how to Become,
   again

There are paths you don’t choose
but find yourself on,
waking one day to realize
you’ve left the voice that once
called you home.

There are people—
beautiful, bruised,
who touched the hem of healing

and stepped back

as if love would demand too much.

And I wonder how God handles
the slow disaster
of the almost-return.
The ones who knew,
who felt,
who started to lean in—
but didn’t.

Does He grieve
like a father who watches
his child walk past the open door,
too ashamed to knock?

Or does He simply wait—
unmoving,
unchanged,
burning with a stillness
only eternity understands?


Because I still ache
in the temporary.
I still hold their names
in my prayers
like broken glass
pressed into palms
that would have held them whole.

There is a thickness to Presence
when light has fully come.

It does not press—

   it holds.

It gathers around you
like dusk after heat,
like blankets not laid over
but risen up from within.

You don’t need to speak.
You don’t need to explain.
You don’t need to hide—
because you are already
hidden
in the Light itself.

And in that hiding,
healing begins.

Here, the ache is not judged.
Here, the story is not required.

Here, breath is enough..

  Not because it was taught to grow,
  but because it remembered
  what warmth feels like..

That slow kindle of hope
becomes heat again—
flames returning
to the heart’s own hearth,
too long left cold
by darkness and despair..

A hearth that survived
on wet matchsticks—
built only
by its own need to endure.

---

It is the hearthfire
that feels the light of hope
first.

The more ash-strewn,
the more hollow,
the deeper the heat
of Light’s permeation.

---

So the soul,
once clenched around its pain,

   softens.

Not all at once.
Not forever.
But enough.

Enough to rest.

Enough to believe--

that warmth this deep
could only come
from the Giver of Light

   ..who never left.

And in that warmth—
without pressure,
without fear..

everything begins again.

It is simple, uncomplicated yet straightforward
It is but love and nothing but love
It is but a “Good morning beautiful”
To days end “Goodnight my love”
But two cups of coffee rather than one
The quite attentive smile when listening
The hug and a kiss upon arrival
The respect of consideration when deciding
Understanding of one’s feeling upon action
It is not complicated
To love and live with one in mind
To live as two, not as one
Truly love and respect till death parts
Yet even in death love does not cease
For a true love is eternal
To love you truly
Until the very end
In this life and the next
For all eternity

The moon kissed the forehead of the pond,
as trembling stars embraced its calm,
as if the heavens, vast and deep,
had found their home within its arms.

The marsh watched on with murky eyes,
laden with a heavy gloom,
no star had ever called its name,
no light had graced its silent tomb.

It whispered low, a voice of silt:
"Why must I drown in shade and hush?
Why does the sky refuse to rest
upon my waters, still and lush?"

The wind, a sage of wandering fate,
brushed softly past and dared to say:
"The less you swallow, the more you see,
for clarity holds eternity."

Yet envy wrapped the marsh in dark,
it clutched its depths, it pulled them tight,
it drank itself into the void,
and severed all from warmth and light.

The pond, so quiet, asked for none,
yet bore the stars within its chest—
and in its stillness, silver-clear,
it cradled time. It cradled rest.