A Return

What is one word that describes you? Just one word? If it’s only a word, then I feel it seems too narrow for something that changes as much as a person. One word makes it sound like something is set in stone. I don’t think I’ve ever been that. I sat with it for a while to find the right word. Finally, the word that came to mind was “return”.

It’s less about a return to something untouched and more about picking up something I set down for a while. I’ve found myself reaching for my sketchbooks again in the past few weeks.

I go through old paintings, rewrite poetry, change the margins, and print pages. The tasks are simple but they require my full attention. Every little decision affects the outcome and time passed by silently as I focused on each task.

I recently blogged about the process of producing my zines and art cards. These are real and tangible things and unlike digital work, this is a slower way of working and nothing happens instantly. That post was a result of sitting at the table and crafting the zines, whereas this post is when I start to let them go and release them to the world. It’s been a while since I last put my work out on Etsy. I went on a hiatus when other things in life got in the way.

However, my art sat there waiting for me to return and produce something for the shop. It feels odd to come back to it now. I need time to readjust and relearn how to do some of the things, like working on Canva. I don’t want to make everything at once. I’m putting together one zine at a time, assembling each one carefully. I don’t force myself or think too far ahead on future projects. It is enough to just work on what is in front of me. So, I launched my Etsy shop again today.

It sits there quietly for now with five simple listings. All of them are the printable versions of my zines. They sit there waiting for the algorithm to index them and finally appear on the search results. No matter how excited and proud I am about them, I don’t feel the need to announce it loudly to the world. The act of listing them on the shop and making them public is enough for me.

I realized how familiar the process felt as I worked on the listings. The tasks of writing descriptions, picking titles, and putting pages in order are the things I have done in the past. However, I’m doing things now with a different way of thinking. There is less doubt while making small decisions and I go through them without overthinking.

The work itself hasn’t changed much. It is still made of the same things: words, ink, graphite, and paper. What has changed is my approach to it. I’m not trying to make something big and complicated. I’m just working on one zine at a time, finishing it, and moving on to the next.

There are still certain things that are unclear. I don’t know how people will react to it or how often I will add more listings. Right now, I’m not trying to answer those questions. I just let it be and do not stress myself about the outcome. For now, I am here again, sitting at the table, working on my art and poems. The shop is open and life flows on. It all feels like a “return” or homecoming, somehow.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

Where Confidence Lives

Today’s writing prompt asks, “Who is the most confident person you know?” I paused reading it for a moment. The question assumes the existence of absolute confidence, as though an individual could navigate life with complete confidence in every circumstance. I’ve never met anyone like that. Based on what I’ve seen, confidence only shows up in some places. It comes from a mix of experience, knowledge, and familiarity. Even the smartest person can get confused outside of those areas.

A surgeon might seem calm and sure of themself in the operating room, but they might feel out of place in a room full of strangers. A history professor may not know what to say when asked about something that isn’t in their field. If you spend enough time with someone, even if they seem sure of themselves, you might see them show signs of doubt.

Knowing your subject well is a big part of confidence. When someone has been studying or practicing something for a long time, it’s clear that they know what they’re doing. They are more calm and they tend to not rush to fill silence or insist that they are right. They simply speak from their knowledge and experience.

Another form of confidence is performed. Some people project confidence loudly and often talk quickly and with authority about many things. It can look real from a distance but it becomes clear over time that the performance is based on very little knowledge. So what is the difference between the two? Real confidence doesn’t need to be reinforced all the time. It doesn’t need outside validation or praise.

When I write about Iban culture, I sometimes think about this. Because I grew up in that world, I feel confident I can talk about it in some ways. I experienced the culture instead of merely reading about it. I remember the stories told by the elders, things like the forest, the spirits, and the land. These things form a background that is difficult to separate from everyday life. But that doesn’t mean I understand everything about being Iban.

The culture is much bigger than what one person has experienced. It holds memories from many generations and traditions that had been passed down for a long time before written records existed. And customs or practices that vary from one region to another. Even now, I still come across stories, beliefs, and historical facts that I didn’t know before.

Some discoveries come through books written by researchers. At other times they also appear in conversations with older relatives who remember things that were never written down. Sometimes they emerge as fragments of memory that return out of the blue. These moments show that being a part of a culture doesn’t mean you know everything about it. It means starting the journey from the inside and experiencing it firsthand.

That’s where my confidence lies when I write about these things. It is not the confidence of someone who thinks they know everything about the subject. It’s the knowledge of someone who has lived in a certain world long enough to see its patterns, even though they know that most of it is still out of reach.

It seems that this kind of partial confidence is everywhere. People go through life with small areas of certainty and much larger areas of learning around them. Nobody is confident about everything in life. Most of us just know where our footing feels steady and where it does not.

On Heavy Feelings and Small Choices

Negative feelings often come and go, but some stay longer than we expect. I recently went through one of those stretches. It wasn’t just one feeling; it was a mix of many, including grief, boredom, loneliness, anger, and a silent existential restlessness that lasted longer than I anticipated. None of these feelings came on suddenly. They built up over time until I realized I had been sitting with them for days.

During these times, it’s easy for the mind to spiral out of control. It’s easy to give in to the heaviness and let despair take over the narrative. I have learned that negative feelings don’t just go away on their own. Sometimes they need an intentional response.

I often return to creativity first. I start with little things, like working on my zines, drawing, and making art cards. Working with my hands helps me get my thoughts back in order. It reminds me that even when life is unpredictable, something meaningful can still be created.

Watching documentaries is another thing that helps me when I’m feeling down. I often go to YouTube and watch stories about other places in the world and the lives of the people who live there. I recently watched several short documentaries about loneliness and social isolation in Japan. These documentaries made me reflect about how the feelings or struggles that we don’t talk about with others are often part of a bigger human experience.

That realization makes me think about my own experience in a different way. It helps me feel less alone in how I feel. It changes how I see things. When we step outside of our own thoughts and look at the world around us, our internal narrative becomes less intense and being curious opens up other options.

Those documentaries made me think of something else as well. There are many choices in life. I understand that clinical depression is real and that many people have to deal with it. Some of my own emotional states also change based on the choices I make. I have the option to create, learn, explore, or connect with others. If you stay in despair, it can become a habit that is difficult to break.

This doesn’t mean ignoring pain or pretending everything is fine. It means recognizing that even when things are hard, we can still respond in small ways. Some of these responses might be as simple as making art, writing a few lines in your journal, watching a thoughtful documentary, or getting in touch with a group of people who have similar interests.

The feelings may still be there, but they don’t have to decide our direction. When we have negative feelings, we can still choose how to deal with them. Even when things are difficult, we still have small choices that may gradually alter our course.

On Making Zines and Art Cards

Daily writing prompt

What activities do you lose yourself in?

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I’ve been spending a lot of time working with paper lately. It starts off quietly. I look through my folders to find a drawing that fits. After that, I edit the poem that goes with it. Then comes the layout of the page. My table slowly fills with printed sheets waiting to be assembled into small booklets. I sit down to adjust a margin or review a page, and before I know it, the afternoon is gone. The work is simple, but it needs careful attention.

For the past few weeks I have been turning some of my drawings and poems into small zines. I created many of these pieces years ago and stored them in sketchbooks or folders. Putting them all together in a small printed booklet makes it feel like they have a place to sit next to each other. The format is modest. A4 pages, folded and stapled. Seeing my drawings and words in the same space makes me feel pleased and grateful.

There are a lot of minor adjustments that need to be made to get them ready for printing. These include the order of the pages, margins, and size of the paper. I just learned about “bleed,” which is a small extension of color that goes past the edge of the page so that the final cut doesn’t leave a white border. It’s a small technical detail, only a few millimeters wide, but learning about it helped the process move more slowly. When you start to notice these little things, the work becomes more purposeful.

In addition to the zines, I’ve also been making art cards out of some of my drawings. These are small reproductions of older works I made over the years. Some are colorful illustrations from past projects, and others are drawings in graphite. They look different when you print them on postcards. They don’t seem like things from a sketchbook anymore but something that I can now share with the world.

I start to see how different the work has been when I lay it out on the table. Next to quiet graphite portraits, there are bright, fun drawings. Cultural drawings next to fun characters. Each of these drawings belongs to a different moment in time.

There is a rhythm of simple tasks that goes into making these small prints and booklets: looking through the files, assembling the booklets, and sending them to the printer. Waiting. When the printed copies come, open the package. Looking through the pages to make sure everything is in the right place.

I received the first set of zines yesterday afternoon. They came back with some problems. The paper was thin, and the binding looked like it was done quickly and poorly. I took out the staples, added a thicker sheet to the covers, and then stapled them back together. These are just prototypes but holding them in my hands made the work feel more real.

There is something absorbing about the physical nature of these steps. The papers were stacked on the desk. The smell of fresh prints. And the newly folded booklet along the middle line.

While I work on these small paper projects, time moves slowly in the background. I only notice it when the light in the room changes or when I see that the stack of pages next to me has gotten smaller. The poems and drawings slowly settle into their places. The cards are lined up on the table. The zines rest in a small pile, ready for the next step.

Are Iban Superstitious?

Embuas (banded kingfisher), one of the Iban’s omen bird. Photo taken at the Borneo Cultures Museum.

People sometimes ask whether I am superstitious. I never know how to answer that question. I grew up Iban in Sarawak, where the stories people carry about the world are different from those taught in textbooks. And these stories often include elements that some might consider superstitious. In many conversations today, the word “superstition” is used to describe beliefs that seem irrational or outdated. It implies a bygone era and a belief system that should be abandoned.

But the word doesn’t fit when I think about the beliefs I heard as a child growing up in Sarawak. Among the Iban, there was once a system of augury known as “beburong.” Certain birds were believed to carry messages from the spirit world. The Iban believed that these birds had a special purpose. People paid close attention to their calls, and the direction of the bird’s flight was important. People listened to them when deciding whether to begin a journey, clear land for farming, or carry out other important tasks such as headhunting.

These practices were linked to Sengalang Burong, a powerful god associated with war and omen birds. Iban people believed that he and his children watched over human affairs through the voices of these birds. The forest was never silent because every sound had a meaning. From the outside, it looks like superstition. People who depend on data, evidence, and measurable results find it hard to believe that birds could help individuals make important decisions.

The Iban once lived very closely with the land. Rivers determined travel. Forests provided food, medicine, and shelter. Paying attention to patterns in nature was part of daily life and also part of survival.

I don’t try to figure out if the birds really brought messages from the spirit world. These beliefs shaped how people saw the world and how they understood their connection to nature and the spiritual meaning of their surroundings. They taught people to pay attention and reminded communities that humans and the land that supported them were not separate.

Most Iban communities no longer depend on omens from birds. Electricity and internet connections power the longhouses that once practiced these beliefs. Younger generations leave for cities, universities, and office jobs. The old systems of interpretation are fading, and many people now refer to them as cultural history. However, the stories remain.

When elders talk about encountering certain birds, they do so with the same calm seriousness they would use to talk about a change in the weather or the flow of a river. These memories are not embarrassing for the elders to share. They are just a part of how earlier generations understood their lives.

Modern language often labels such beliefs as superstition. The word closes the conversation quickly, as if discussing it were shameful or in conflict with Abrahamic religious beliefs. It suggests that there is nothing more to examine. But as I grow older, I feel less certain about dismissing things so easily.

Beburong is part of my cultural heritage, but I never relied on omen birds to guide my decisions. Now, my days are filled with work, art, writing, family obligations, and the normal routines of modern life. But when I’m walking outdoors and hear certain birds, those beliefs return to my mind. It doesn’t ask for faith. It only reminds me that there were once other ways of listening to the world.

Learning to Trust My Own Mind

As I write this, the world feels tense and unstable. The escalating conflict involving the United States, Israel, and Iran weighs heavily on many of us watching from afar. I condemn war, bombing, and any form of oppression, because civilians absorb the damage. I do not support governments that enable violence, nor leaders who remain in power to control their people indefinitely. None of these positions justify harm. My thoughts are with the ordinary families, the displaced, the children, the elderly, and even the animals whose lives are disrupted or ended by decisions they did not make.

To be honest, writing this post is challenging for me, as it requires me to acknowledge some shortcomings and feelings of shame stemming from my past experiences with the church. For those who read my blog regularly, you might notice that I mentioned deconstructing my Christian faith and leaving the church several months ago. However, as a writer, I believe I should not only write about the rosy parts of life but also the ugly ones. So what experiences in life helped me grow the most?

Disorientation, not achievement or visible milestones, was what helped me grow the most. Five years ago, I thought I would fall apart without the church. I thought I needed other people to help me make important decisions. I used to think that being obedient would keep me safe. If I questioned advice given by church members or made a different choice, I thought something was wrong with me. I told myself I was hardheaded, rebellious, proud, and even divisive. I didn’t hear those labels yelled at me every day, but they were implied often enough that I absorbed them.

I kept those words to myself, and slowly, throughout the years, they changed the way I thought about my thoughts. I imagined how other people might see my choices before I made them. I believed that being humble meant following the rules, and I assumed that having doubts meant being morally weak. And yes, when you spend years in a highly controlled environment, you will have these toxic thinking patterns. I haven’t decided to write about it yet because I’m still processing my experiences over the last 20 years.

If I were being honest, I didn’t feel courageous leaving the church. In fact, it made me feel unstable. For a while, I thought things would fall apart and I waited for proof that I couldn’t steer my life without guidance from the church. I believed if I didn’t get regular feedback or advice, I would make mistakes. I closely monitored myself, expecting to fail.

Instead, something happened gradually. I started making decisions without checking with anyone first. I started with minor decisions and worked my way up to bigger ones. My judgment was correct. I wasn’t being careless or crazy, and I wasn’t falling apart. The world didn’t end because I trusted my own judgment.

Without constant guidance, I had to pay more attention to myself. I had to distinguish between fear and discernment. I had to deal with uncertainty without immediately looking for reassurance. The process was uncomfortable, and it made me realize that a lot of my previous obedience was based on fear rather than belief in Christian conviction.

Another area that helped me grow the most is being a mother. It changed me in ways I didn’t expect. It took a lot of strength to raise kids while dealing with fatigue, migraines, and changing health. This tedious work of mothering often happened in silence and without an audience. Perseverance didn’t happen overnight. I had to build it slowly throughout the years and without drama. Being a responsible parent meant making choices even when I wasn’t sure what to do.

Financial instability made things even worse. It showed me how much of my hesitation was due to fear of being wrong. When income is uncertain, every choice feels amplified. As time went on, I learned that instability doesn’t always mean you’re not good at what you do. It just means you are in a hard season, and the seasons will change.

However, the most significant change was internal. I no longer believe that being independent meant being rebellious. I stopped thinking that disagreeing was a sign of moral failure. I no longer believe that valid guidance must come from a single authority or religion. These days, I trust my reasoning with steadiness instead of pride or certainty.

The Essence of a Smaller Life

Daily writing prompt

If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?

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I have been reading The Abundance of Less by Andy Couturier. I’m only on the first few chapters, but the people he writes about stay with me long after I’ve put the book down. They live in the countryside of Japan, far away from the fast pace of cities and the demands of the digital world. The scenery isn’t what draws me in. What attracts me is how gracefully they go about their days. For anyone curious about the author’s thinking, his interview with Kyoto Journal offers a thoughtful look into the ideas behind the book: https://kyotojournal.org/conversations/making-a-life-not-merely-a-living/#top

Here are some of the people featured in this book:

San Oizumi is a potter who makes tea bowls, builds small structures, and allows his work to take the time it needs. His life unfolds at its own pace, shaped by intentional choices rather than external pressure.

Osamu Nakamura is a woodblock craftsman who carves slowly and on purpose keeps his world small. He rereads the same books for years. He commits to depth and does so quietly.

Atsuko Watanabe is an activist and mother who plans her days around what she can accommodate, not what she accumulates.

Kogan Murata, a Zen practitioner, sings the same songs repeatedly to make him more at ease with himself.

The artist Akira Ito studies ordinary objects and folk art. He sees the beauty in the work of unknown hands and in the little things that life leaves behind.

Gufu Watanabe, a traveler and journal keeper, writes down mundane things like a meal, a corner of a room, or the light on a plant just because they are there.

Koichi Yamashita, the gardener, understands how long one meal actually takes when you follow its beginnings back to the soil. Everything slows when traced back to its true starting point.

And throughout his life, Masanori Oe keeps asking the same questions, letting the act of asking change him instead of expecting clear answers.

They all live in different ways, but there is something that connects them. That connection doesn’t come from a common rule or way of thinking. It is a way of being with one’s own life. Their choices are calm and measured. They follow a rhythm that is shaped by staying focused. Everyone has a small world inside them, and their interior lives feel wide.

As I read, I have no desire to replace my life with theirs. What I want is the core of their choices: a way to get through the day without rushing to the next thing. It is a way of working that doesn’t require you to prove the worth of your work or put on a show for anyone else. I am drawn to the inner posture that lies beneath their rural setting.

I live in a city where I am surrounded by noise and responsibilities. My days are shaped by family, work, and all the challenges of living in a city. Sometimes I experience something similar to what these people embody, like when I go back to writing or my art without the need to explain myself. I sense it when I commit to my small routines and when I choose to keep my world manageable. The external environment may be different, but the intention seems to be the same.

The essence I admire exists independently of place. It has more to do with how time is held, what is noticed, and what is allowed to matter. I have no intention of becoming these people. A quieter rhythm has begun to take shape in my days, influencing how I move through the life I already inhabit.

Teaching Myself How to Be an Artist

The hardest DIY project I’ve ever done was teaching myself how to be an artist. I did not attend art school or take any formal art classes or workshops. I learned by watching YouTube videos, reading books, and continuing to draw or write throughout the years. I learned by drawing and writing badly and taking long breaks before going back to both. Most of the learning happened in solitude, without validation or fanfare.

For a long time, I thought of this as just something I kept doing regardless of the outcome. I drew, I wrote, and when life got too overwhelming, I stopped. Then I began again. Some tries took years to happen and every time I return to them, it always feels unnatural. My hands were stiff and my confidence weakened. I had to learn again how to sit still, pay attention, and believe that the work would eventually show me what it needed.

There were no external ways to measure progress without formal training. There were no grades or teachers to tell me if something worked. I had to decide when a piece was done, or if it had to be abandoned, or simply put aside. It wasn’t easy to make that kind of choice. It took me a long time to learn that, and I had to do it over and over again. I learned how to deal with uncertainty without rushing to fix anything.

The work grew over time to include more than just individual pieces. Instead of just adding to my writing, I learned how to edit existing pieces. I learned how to put together drawings, poems, and pieces of writing to become finished products. Sometimes I reworked my drawings or writings or redid them again if I wasn’t pleased with the results.

This project of teaching myself art happened at the same time as regular life. I have kids to raise, bills to pay, and a social life to attend to. At times, responsibilities, fatigue, and distractions pushed the art project to the periphery of my life. I often thought during those times that I had lost the drive I used to have. However, upon my return, I discovered that my skills and instincts remained intact, ready for action. When I resumed, the work started up again even if I encountered hiccups.

Teaching myself also meant I had to work within limits. I didn’t always have the vocabulary others had. I worked more slowly than others who had help or extra resources. I learned through repetition rather than progression. Sometimes I kept going back to the same themes for years and that used to bother me. However, I finally gave up on trying to change that pattern. I accepted that repetition turned into a way to learn instead of a sign of failure.

Looking back, the purpose of doing those things was to stick with the process, even when years went by without anyone noticing or championing my work. It was always a lonely pursuit, but the work continued anyway. It always changed with the seasons of life. I’m still teaching myself to this day, decades after I started. The methods might have changed, but the practice stays the same. And there is no end to this self-taught project until the day I die. The project goes on as a way of working, gradually evolving, moving forward without ceremony, and being shaped by whatever the day brings.

The Problem With “Should”

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If I could get rid of one word for good, it would be “should.” That word is not rude or offensive. When someone uses it in a sentence, it doesn’t hurt or shock on impact. What gives it power is its subtlety. “Should” sounds innocent and gets overlooked easily. It often comes up in conversations disguised as common sense, advice, or concern. It sounds reasonable and hardly ever raises alarm. However, it changes how people feel about themselves without their knowledge or consent. I have noticed many people say “should” when they talk about how to live, how to feel or respond, and how to move on from something bothering them. Here are some examples:

You should be grateful.

You should know better by now.

You should forgive.

You should stay.

You should want this.

The word has power without needing to explain itself. It makes an assumption without giving any context. When spoken, it compares someone’s current situation to an implied standard. My biggest concern about “should” is how sinister it could be. Like for example, solicited advice can be helpful when it is invited. However, the harm can happen when the advice giver uses “should” to replace the important part, which is to truly listen to the person who asked for advice. When we use “should,” it enters the space before understanding has had time to grow. So you see, it comes with an assumption already in place.

I have heard “should” used most often when people aren’t sure what to do. For example, when someone is grieving or questioning their faith. Other common situations are when someone is worn out, overwhelmed, or unsure of their next step. In those times, “should” makes things less uncomfortable and easier to understand. “Should” gives direction when being patient and thinking things through might be a better option.

The word “should” does something subtle over time. It trains people to monitor themselves all the time and judge their thoughts and feelings against an unseen standard. They start to compare how they feel to what they think they should feel. They also start to compare their needs against what they believe is expected of them.

I’ve seen this happen in religious settings, where “should” is used to make people obey and not question things. I’ve seen it in conversations regarding productivity, where rest is treated as something to be earned and not a necessity. I’ve seen it used abundantly in discussions about relationships that often encouraged someone to be patient and endure instead of drawing firm boundaries. The word “should” adapts easily, and it is often used to control a narrative so it fits the controller.

One reason “should” is hard to challenge is that it often comes with good intentions. The person using it might think they are helping and being sincere. But sincerity and the impact of the word are two different things. They aren’t mutually exclusive. The impact of the word is dependent upon what it forces the listener to disregard, no matter how sincere it is being delivered. When “should” comes into a sentence, the present moment loses its value. What is felt, known, or experienced becomes temporary, like something that needs to be fixed and gotten over with.

I don’t want to replace “should” with another option. I know that certainty is still limited and that expectations still exist even without the word. In life, there will always be choices, obligations, and consequences. To get rid of “should,” we would need a different way of getting our messages across. And that would include empathy, perspectives, thorough explanation, and room for nuance. Without “should,” we would have to say what we actually mean. And we would have to talk about what we really think instead of what we think is supposed to be.

I have learned that that word, “should,” directly contributed to many difficult periods in my life. It was said so many times that I didn’t see how insidious the harm it caused. It drove me to doubt my own timing, my own limits, and also my own instincts. Banning “should” might not make things easier but it could give honesty more room to breathe. Without “should,” it would remove one of the most efficient ways to quietly erase oneself. And of course, without “should,” other ways of relating would have to take its place.

A Season Without Clear Answers

Daily writing prompt

What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?

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When I think about the next six months, I don’t see one defining obstacle. I see a few changes happening at the same time. None of them are dramatic on their own, but when you put them all together, they change how I live my life. The hard part is staying composed when things that used to feel stable start to change.

One of the most significant changes is my relationship with faith. I began deconstructing my faith last year, before leaving the church in early January. For almost twenty years, I have been a member of the same church community. It changed the way I thought, spoke, and saw myself. Leaving happened gradually, without any clear signs or relief. It is a never-ending process of untangling habits, dogmatic beliefs, and expectations that used to seem unquestionable.

I will still be carrying parts of that structure with me in the next few months, even as I try to let go of it. Some days I feel certain about my distance. Some days I feel lost and don’t know what will take the place of what I’ve left behind. The work now is to simply exist without quickly replacing it with another religious system or set of answers. It takes time and requires the ability to deal with unknowns longer than I’m used to.

At the same time, my writing life is expanding. My writing has gone beyond private experimentation. There are ongoing projects now: several zines that need finishing. An Iban heritage poetry collection that I want to publish in May. This blog has become a place I return to regularly, not only when I feel inspired but also because I feel responsible for showing up. It’s something that I expect to do consistently from now on, regardless of the size of the audience or subscribers.

This growth comes with steady demands. It needs discipline without urgency. I have to figure out how much of myself I can give without making the work feel like another source of stress. The work now is to keep a steady pace, even when I want to push myself harder.

There is also a quieter loss that goes along with these changes. I am grieving because someone who was always there for me is no longer there. I didn’t lose them to death. I lost their daily presence, attention, and familiarity. The loss may be subtle but it is persistent. It shows up in little things, like habits that don’t work anymore and thoughts that don’t get a response.

This grief arrives quietly. It doesn’t change life in obvious ways. It fades into the background and changes how things feel on normal days. I’m still doing my job and living my life like any other day. However, a steady awareness of what’s missing, and carrying it without letting it take over everything else, takes a lot of mental power and energy.

These three movements will have a big impact on me in the next six months. A spiritual framework that is transforming. A creative life that needs some order. And a personal loss that lingers and doesn’t resolve neatly. These are the conditions I will be living inside.

I am learning to take all of this in without jumping to conclusions. I’m trying not to make things clear when they aren’t. I won’t give up one part of myself to make another part of me stronger. I’m learning that even when things are uncertain, there can still be stability. Sometimes, stability comes from being present when things aren’t resolved.

I think the next six months will need my attention instead of closure. It will need my restraint and my willingness to keep going even when my internal landscape feels unfamiliar. That’s where I need to keep my focus.