When the present self meets both past and future, the eyes close. The past resists being seen through the same eyes that once bore witness. The future remains hidden, veiled behind closed lids.
The winds of change have arrived, peace has been made, and the white flags have borne silent witness.
Now, sit in stillness. Sip from the waters, guarded by the divine, untouched by time.

What we see out there begins in here. The subconscious shapes our lens, quietly, constantly, without permission. It watches before we move, guiding us from the shadows.
Spilled tea isn’t a loss; it’s a signal, flow forward.

“A succession of mountain ranges shifts from green to black then green till there is nothing but light. The place is uneven and vast with curved edges like a recipient, like the palm of the hand holding a decanter for human minds and souls. Between earth and sky, there’s a bulls’ fight as night falls upon; and higher in the sky beyond a thin veil, the Awliya or friends of God in white faces rest at the hidden source of light”

After the fruit is bitten, what happens when knowledge is digested? Beyond the veil, the fruit's seed finds its way into fertile soil. Nourished by 'her' waters, the tree grows more fruit. The cycle is reset. Yet, am I free to choose who I am after that first bite? Or does the apple choose me?

Estragon: “We always find something, eh didi, to give us the impression we exit?

Vladimir: yes, yes we’re magicians!” -

Samuel Beckett 1952

According to Chinese and Japanese myths, there was once a giant school made up of thousands of koi fish swimming up the Yellow River in China. As they swam, they gained strength by pushing against the current. However, on the Yellow River, there was a waterfall. Once the fish reached the waterfall, most turned back and went with the current as it became too hard.

The ones who remained continued to try to reach the top of the waterfall. These koi kept trying for 100 years. At last, one koi successfully leaped to the top of the waterfall. To reward this dedicated koi, the gods turned it into a beautiful golden dragon.

My father always told me a stories of his invincible grandmother. Her strength and wits were unmatched. Her narratives weaved magic like the ink on her chest. It was even said that she was buried with a basket of pearls

Finding an inner home, again.