The Weight of Prayer
The air in the mountains has a specific grit to it, a thin, cold sharpness that tastes of dry lichen and ancient stone. I remember the feeling of pressing my palms against a wall that had been weathered by centuries of wind; it was not smooth,…
The River That Never Sleeps
Can a river ever truly be the same twice, or are we merely watching the passage of a ghost that refuses to be held? We often speak of time as a line, a steady progression from one point to the next, yet our own lives feel more like the swirling…
Petals on the Wind
I was walking to the mailbox this morning when I saw a handful of white petals scattered across the sidewalk. They looked like tiny, discarded confetti from a party I had missed. It made me stop in my tracks. It is strange how we spend so much…