The Way the Light Waits

What I’ve Learned from No Longer Rushing

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There are days when the soul resists all forms of momentum. It does not wish to advance or to retreat, but simply to exist—attuned to the quiet murmur of memory, the scent of rain on old stone, the slow unraveling of light across a table where no task waits. I wrote this not to offer conclusions, but to confess a change in the way I now move through the hours. It is, perhaps, a note to the part of me that once hurried past her own life.

This is a reflection for those who feel the invisible ache of always becoming, and wonder what it might be like to simply be.

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The Way the Light Waits

There were mornings when I mistook urgency for meaning—

When the ticking of clocks sounded like purpose,

And the blur of motion passed for clarity.

But one day, the air forgot to rush.

It hung, thick and fragrant,

Like time had leaned against the doorframe,

Watching me with unspoken questions.

I used to believe in upward things—

Steps, achievements, climbing verbs.

Now I look sideways,

Into the stillness of fields after rain,

Into the half-closed eyes of old women who know things.

I do not chase anymore.

I cultivate.

I kneel before moments and loosen their soil.

Some mornings I find nothing.

Others, the smallest bloom.

There’s no applause for pausing.

But I’ve learned to hear the hush of approval

In the way a leaf doesn’t fall all at once,

How the dusk lets go of the sun without violence.

It took years to soften.

To stop measuring.

To realize that nothing sacred grows

Beneath the whip of haste.

Now I live like a letter

Never meant to arrive—

Just carried, tenderly,

By the hands of wind

From one beloved thing to another.

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If these lines touched something unspoken in you, then perhaps we have met—somewhere between silence and recognition. There is no need to arrive. Only to remain. Only to notice. And to let the moment, like a garden, tend to us in return.

Until soon,

T.