Tag: Poetry

silhouette photography of group of people jumping during golden time

The Science of Joy [a poem]

They say laughter lowers cortisol,
that a smileβ€”however faintβ€”
can tilt the chemistry of the mind,
turning stress into something
the body can release.

Joy, it seems, is not merely an emotionβ€”
it is a physiological event.
A quiet rebalancing.
A shift in the inner atmosphere.

A single moment of delight
can soften the heart’s cadence,
loosen the breath,
invite light into places long dimmed.
Endorphins rise,
the immune system stirs,
and the weight of the day
grows mercifully lighter.

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woman sitting on wooden planks

Even Now [a poem]

Even nowβ€”
when the path lies veiled in shadow
and light clings only to the edgesβ€”
you are not without a way.
There is a voice,
quiet as breath,
guiding you inward
toward stillness,
toward peace.

Even nowβ€”
when the weight of waiting bows your shoulders
and weariness settles deepβ€”
you do not walk alone.
Grace moves beside you,
unseen and unwavering,
cradling the quiet work
of your becoming.

Even nowβ€”
when time feels lost,
and the world seems to move without youβ€”
remember:
not all growth arrives with fanfare.
Some of it stirs in silence,
rooting in unseen soil,
taking shape
in the sacred art
of simply enduring.

You are not forgotten.
You are not adrift.
You are being led
by hands that do not waver,
by light that never leaves.

Even now.

β—Š

red flower near white flower during daytime

A New Beginning: Why Today Is Not Too Late

There are mornings when we rise beneath the weight of what was left undoneβ€”
unwritten pages, unspoken words, unfulfilled intentions that whisper from yesterday’s shadow.
We glance backward, wondering if too much time has passed,
if our moment has slipped quietly through the cracks.

But let this truth settle softly upon your heart:
Today is not too late.

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close up shot of scrabble tiles on a white surface

The Gift of Imperfection: How Flaws Make Us Whole

Somewhere along the path of becoming, we absorbed the notion that worth is contingent upon flawlessness. That to be lovable, we must be polishedβ€”composed, orderly, untouched by error.

But lifeβ€”the kind that pulses with meaning and depthβ€”unfolds not in perfection, but in the spaces between.
It lives in the cracks.
In the hesitations.
In the unanticipated, the undone, the unrefined.

We were never meant to be seamless. We were meant to be whole. And wholeness allows for unevennessβ€”for vulnerability, for nuance, for evolution.

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