The river moves slowly here, almost still, but I can see the current underneath, the way it pulls and shifts, always moving even when it looks calm. I watch it for a long time. And I feel it, this sense of something gathering. Not urgency. Not anxiety. Just... readiness.

A woman walks by with a dog, a golden retriever, tongue long out of his mouth, tail wagging. She smiles at me as she passes. "Beautiful day," she says. "It is," I say, and I mean it. She keeps walking, and I sit there, watching the street, the trees, the way the light falls through the leaves in shifting patterns.

I'm standing outside at dawn, and the sky is just beginning to lighten. Not bright yet. Just that soft gray-blue that comes before the sun, when the world is still quiet but waking. I'm facing where the sun rises, anticipating it’s warm morning glow. I don't know why. My body just turned this way, and I let the light it. The air is cool and still. The birds are starting to sing. And I feel it, the pull, stronger than I've ever felt it before. Not in my mind. In my whole body.

Dear Moon, I'm cleaning this morning, and my hands are moving like they know what they're doing. They reach for the book on the shelf that I haven't opened in years. The sweater in the back of the closet that doesn't fit anymore. The stack of papers I've been meaning to sort through but never have. They lift, sort, set aside with a certainty that feels almost foreign. And I'm watching them like they belong to someone else. Because Moon, I have no idea what I'm making room for

It's evening, and I'm standing at the edge of something. Not literally. There's no cliff, no precipice, no dramatic drop-off. Just me, standing in my backyard, looking out at the horizon where the sky meets the earth in a line so clean it almost hurts to look at. But I feel it. The edge. The threshold. The place where what was ends and what comes next begins. And I'm terrified. Not of what's ahead, I can't see what's ahead. I'm terrified because I don't know if I'm actually s

I'm walking this afternoon, and I don't know where I'm going. Not lost. Just... wandering. Letting my feet choose the direction. I've walked this neighborhood a hundred times, but today it feels different. The sun is different. The sky is different. Or maybe I'm different, and everything else is just reflecting that back to me. I turn left at the corner instead of right. I don't know why. My body just pulls that way, and I follow. There's a street I've never noticed before. O

It's been there for days, maybe longer. Quiet at first. Easy to ignore. But this morning, standing here with the cool air on my face, I can't ignore it anymore. Something is calling. I want to believe that this feeling is real, that it's leading me somewhere, that all this stillness has prepared me for something. But I'm terrified that I'm standing here in this doorway, feeling a pull that doesn't exist. So which is it? Is this pull real? Or am I making it up?

The world is quiet around me. Not silent, there are sounds, small ones, the kind you only notice when you're still. A dog barking in the distance. The rustle of leaves. Birds chirping, The hum of a car passing streets away. And underneath it all, something else. Something I can't quite name.

But today, I'm not rushing. Today, I'm just here. Washing dishes. Feeling the water. Watching the light. And I realize: Maybe this is the work.

Just listening. I used to be afraid of silence. It felt too big, too empty, like a room with no furniture where every sound echoed back at me. I used to fill it, with music, with podcasts, with the television on in the background even when I wasn't watching. Anything to keep the quiet from getting too close. But this morning, I let it in.