My life is a series of stories—woven together like
threads, some frayed, some whole.

I listen to these stories
soothing or shouting
in the wind dancing through trees,
in the rain
in the voices of people searching for peace.

Each story carries its own weight, its own wisdom, its own rhythm,
its own muse.

In mediation, I am both witness and guide.
Even as words cut and clash, there is
the possibility of understanding beneath the noise.
I have seen how even the most fractured
stories can find their way back to harmony.

At home, my hands tell stories.
Kneading bread, spinning wool, pressing seeds into soil
acts of love, of creation, of tending transitions.
The day’s burdens soften.
The edges of dreams become more visible.

In my garden,
I am both teacher and student,
co-creating cycles of birth, growth, celebration, and death.
Whispers of that which we cannot see but know to be true
fleeting and infinite all at once.

To live is to tend
to stories, to the earth, to one another.
It is to shine light what is meaningful, what is beautiful
and to let go of what no longer serves.