Sadness does not obscure the world; it tunes the eye to its subtle insistences, its light and line made unexpectedly vivid.

Perhaps we never truly return home. We simply carry its fragments within us, walking the long road between who we once were and who we are still becoming.

I make myself tea several times a day. While the water boils, thoughts wander off. A tiny pocket of time holds me still.

Sensitivity is often treated as a liability, yet it may be what allows us to endure, to notice beauty, and to remain in dialogue with a world larger than our pain. Wonder is the small opening that reminds us of this.

Sometimes the most human thing we can offer is presence - a steady willingness to sit beside someone as they learn to meet a world that has been permanently changed.

If breath begins every phrase I play, then perhaps this beginning also starts with one steady breath, set down in writing.