At the kitchen table, I begin to write.
What comes first is a tangle of wild words. They flicker and tease, and wait to take shape.
My pen hovers over the page as if tracing what I almost know but cannot yet explain.
I keep writing.
The page becomes a place to follow small currents of meaning.
A fleeting insight.
A single moment.
Something I want to call precious.
To write is to sit in the quiet, listening.
Good practice for everything in my life.
The work is not to capture something grand, but to notice what shimmers at the edge of attention.
Like sitting with a friend over coffee, sharing the thought that has been tugging at my heart all along.
Writing turns the ordinary into a doorway.
It reminds me that each day holds something waiting to be named.
And once named, it no longer passes unnoticed.