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Whispers, warmth, and the things that could make life glow. |
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Welcome to My Private Whispers and Light Blog Some places we create just for breathing — quiet corners where our thoughts settle, our hearts speak, and the small, bright things in life finally get a voice. This is mine. Here, I’m gathering the pieces that make my world feel warm and whole: • the love of my life and my family • art in every color and every form • photos, quotes, and little scribbles that catch me at the soul • Bible verses that steady me • daydreams, hopes, and the questions that keep me curious • wolves, birds, cats, and the creatures I’ve loved since childhood • podcasts I adore, memes that make me wheeze • and the writing that threads it all together ✍🏻 I’ve carried these whispers for a long time — tucked into journals, hidden in drafts, scattered across platforms. Now they finally have a home. If you’ve wandered in, welcome. Maybe you came for a poem, a thought, a spark… or maybe curiosity just nudged you here. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you stopped for a moment. I hope something in this little corner lifts you, warms you, or at least makes you smile. And if not… well, at least you’ll get to wonder why on earth you’re reading this jumble of thoughts and ideas. 🤣 Either way, the door’s open. Let’s see where the light leads. Always kind wishes, Tee |
| Revisiting - PJ Party and The Ghost and Mr. Chicken I was reminded recently how easy it is to forget that some of the films we associate most strongly with television actually began their lives on the big screen. The Ghost and Mr. Chicken was released in theaters across the United States on January 20, 1966. It was a full theatrical release from Universal Pictures, not a made-for-TV movie, and it arrived at a time when studios still trusted character-driven comedies to bring people into theaters. For many viewers, this film first appeared on a television screen. I was lucky enough to see it in a theater when I was eleven, and the magic has never faded. I loved it then, and I still love it now. There were twelve of us, all eleven years old, lined up across the theater, holding hands during the scary parts. That same night was my very first pajama party. After we got back from the movie, we were still buzzing with excitement, and because we were celebrating Joan’s birthday, her mom taught us all how to crochet. That night sparked my lifelong love of crocheting and weaving, a memory forever tangled up with that movie. At the time, I didn’t know anything about studio strategies or box-office success. I only knew how the film made me feel. The Simmons mansion was genuinely spooky, the organ scene unforgettable, and Luther Heggs oddly comforting. Even as a child, I sensed that this was a story about fear, yes, but also about decency and quiet courage. Looking back now, it’s clear that Universal knew exactly what they were doing. The film arrived during Don Knotts’s peak period after leaving The Andy Griffith Show, when he was proving he could carry a movie on his own. He had already shown his range, but this role refined what he did best. Luther Heggs is nervous and self-doubting, but he’s also principled. He doesn’t become brave because fear disappears. He becomes brave because the truth matters more than his fear. That distinction is what gives the performance its staying power. It isn’t loud heroism. It’s human. Exact box-office numbers from the mid-1960s are hard to pin down, but Universal clearly considered the film a success. You can see it in what followed: more starring roles for Knotts and growing confidence in that gentle “comedy with a spooky edge” formula. In studio terms, the movie did exactly what it was meant to do. What fascinates me most is how its legacy unfolded. For many people, this became a television favorite, often resurfacing around Halloween. It was spooky without being cruel, funny without being mean, and safe in a way that invited repeat viewing. That long television life is why it feels so deeply nostalgic to so many of us. Time has been kind to The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. Modern audiences often appreciate it more than critics did at the time. Its pacing, restraint, and warmth stand out in an era that sometimes mistakes volume for substance. This film trusts its audience. It always did. Today, whether seen on Blu-ray, streaming, or remembered from a childhood matinee, it still works because it understands something fundamental: courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it trembles, takes a breath, and steps forward anyway. Some films fade into history. Others quietly stay with us. This one never left. The image is totally AI generated. I wanted to have something to illustrate this story so I asked an AI program to make an image of a spooky old organ.  |
Pixie Heart and the Lost Puppy A bedtime story When the moon was tucked gently into the sky and the forest grew quiet and kind, Pixie Heart floated softly through the night. Her wings glimmered like sleepy stars, and her glow was warm, never bright enough to startle, only enough to soothe. That was when she heard it. A small sound. A sniffle. A little boy’s cry. Pixie Heart followed the sound until she found a young boy sitting on a mossy log, rubbing his eyes with his sleeves. His shoulders shook, and beside him lay an empty leash. Pixie Heart hovered close and spoke in rhymes, her voice light as a lullaby. “Hello, little one, don’t hide your face, You’re safe right now, this is a gentle place. I heard your tears upon the breeze, So I came along with care and ease.” The boy looked up, surprised but calm. “I’m lost,” he said softly. “I was looking for my puppy. He ran away, and now I can’t find him… or my way home.” Pixie Heart’s glow softened, wrapping the boy in warmth. “A puppy can wander, quick and spry, But love leaves trails that never say goodbye. Take a breath, just one, with me, The night will help us look and see.” The boy breathed in. Then out. His crying slowed. Pixie Heart floated ahead, her light dancing across the path. “Listen close, and use your ears, Love is louder than your fears. Sometimes paws make quiet sound, If we listen, they can be found.” They walked together, slowly and gently. The forest seemed to lean in to help. Leaves rustled. Crickets paused. And then, from behind a tree, came a small, happy bark. “Puppy!” the boy whispered. A fluffy little dog came bounding out, tail wagging so hard it shook his whole body. The boy laughed and hugged him tight. Pixie Heart smiled and spoke one last rhyme. “A heart that feels deeply, a soul kind and true, Means the world shines brighter because of you. Even when lost, love leads the way, And home will always find you someday.” The boy blinked, and when he looked again, Pixie Heart was gone. But he didn’t feel alone. Holding his puppy close, he followed the path home, sleepy, safe, and smiling. And high above, Pixie Heart drifted back to the stars, knowing that sometimes the best magic is helping someone feel brave enough to rest. the image is assisted ai digital art  |
“To see beauty in all things is to carry light in your soul.” Quote—by Tee M Sapphire of Souls She glows like starlight scattered across the night, her elegance a quiet shimmer. Almost jewel-bright, she speaks in luminous hues, each one reflecting love. Her beauty lives in its purest form, in a touch both gentle and true. She gives love freely, without measure, asking for nothing in return. There is brilliance without perfection, peace wrapped in grace. Her heart is adorned with compassion for the world, seeing beauty where others do not. A caring light rests within her soul, steady, soft, and enduring. She is the sapphire of souls, radiating care and kindness. -Tee M The image is assisted Ai digital art by TeeM  |
| A role I played as a teenager stayed with me and quietly shaped the way I understand story, grief, and endurance. *True Story from My Past* A Role That Stayed With Me Some experiences settle quietly into us and stay. We don’t recognize their weight right away. They wait, shaping how we see the world and how we eventually tell our own stories. Acting was one of those early shaping forces for me. I began acting in sixth grade. The first role I ever landed was one of the lead children in Mr. Popper’s Penguins. From there, I went on to perform in The Roar of the Greasepaint – The Smell of the Crowd and several other productions. We were a traveling troupe, performing in different locations and sometimes doing two shows a day on weekends. It was exciting, exhausting, and formative in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. Of all the roles I played, one left the deepest and most lasting impression. The play was A Narrative of the Captivity. It told the story of a Puritan woman in early America who was taken during an attack on her settlement. She was a wife, a mother, and a strong settler woman trying to survive a brutal moment in history. During the attack, her baby was struck by an arrow and died in her arms. The character had to recount that loss, along with the deaths of nearly everyone she loved. I worked closely with the director on a long monologue describing what had happened. The challenge wasn’t memorization, but restraint. I was seventeen. The woman I portrayed was strong. She did not collapse into hysteria. I had to tell the story clearly and truthfully, allowing only the faintest hint of tears. That restraint made the role harder, not easier. Her entire family was gone. Her baby, whom she had been holding, was gone. And yet she endured. After the attack, she was taken captive and forced to live among people who were not kind to her. Wanting to do justice to the role, I sought extra help and convinced my parents to hire an acting coach. She taught me how to stay present, how to hold emotion without letting it consume me, and how to finish a scene even when every instinct told me to break down. Every time I stepped on stage, the role tore at me. I was young, but I understood enough to feel the weight of what those people endured. Though the play was a dramatization, it echoed real history. These things did happen. People lived through horrors like this, and some survived to tell the story. That experience stayed with me. That woman survived. Her strength still stays with me, years later, reminding me that the most powerful stories are often told in quiet voices, spoken simply, and carried forward by those who endure. |
When Words Ask Us to Stay Every now and then, I come across something so special that I can’t help but settle in and read it again and again, trying to fully grasp the meaning behind the words being shared. That’s one of the ways I know I’m in the presence of something rare. I always worry that pieces like this may be skimmed with what I call a “topical pass,” never truly seen for the depth they hold beyond a first, quick read. On Saturday, I received a note on my community feed from an author I follow. She had added something new to one of her books. A little secret of mine is that I read a great deal of her portfolio quietly, without always saying so. When I have a headache or feel especially tired, I often turn to her writing. I discovered her work some time ago and fell in love with her style. I return to it often—poetry that is layered, thoughtful, and meant to be sat with rather than rushed. But this piece—this poem she titled Broken Windows—was something else entirely. It stayed with me. I found myself reading it slowly, studying it, letting it settle. To me, this is the very best kind of poetry. The kind that lingers. The kind that doesn’t let go easily. I reached out to her to share how deeply it affected me, and with her permission, I wanted to write this reflection—not to explain the poem away, but to share how it spoke to me and why I believe it deserves time and care from the reader. ***** Sitting With Broken Windows The poem opens with the line: “Why do I recoil against life’s dirge?” A dirge is a song of mourning, often played at funerals. To me, this line asks a deeply human question: Why do I pull away from life when it feels heavy, sorrowful, or filled with grief? It speaks to exhaustion—the kind that comes from carrying pain for too long. The next image deepens that feeling: “Mournful downer notes trumpet through broken windows I board up against treachery—retreating.” This is dense, layered imagery. The broken windows feel like emotional openings—places where hurt once entered. Boarding them up becomes an act of self-protection. Treachery suggests betrayal, disappointment, or harm that taught the speaker it was safer to retreat than remain open. In simple terms, I hear someone saying: Life keeps hurting me, so I close myself off to survive. Then comes one of the quietest, yet most powerful lines in the poem: “My heart gathers dust.” Dust gathers where nothing moves. Where life has gone still. This line speaks to numbness—not because the speaker lacks feeling, but because they have been protecting themselves for too long. The spiritual turning point follows: “Christ whispers, ‘I died for you—can you not live for Me?’” What struck me here is that Christ does not shout. He whispers. This isn’t condemnation or judgment—it’s invitation. A gentle reminder that hiding may keep us safe, but it also keeps us from fully living. Finally, the poem closes with: “I pray to open myself, letting Love flow through.” There is no claim of victory here. No neat resolution. Only desire. I want to open again. I want to try. ***** What This Poem Says to Me For me, Broken Windows is not a poem of answers. It is a poem of confession. It speaks to: • Emotional withdrawal after pain or betrayal • The fear of being hurt again • The tension between faith and self-protection • The longing to reopen one’s heart, even when it feels frightening It may feel difficult to grasp on a first read because the imagery is compact and the movement is inward rather than narrative. But at its core, it says something profoundly human: I closed myself off because life hurt me. I know love asks me to live openly again. I’m afraid—but I want to try. And sometimes, that wanting is enough to begin. That is why I felt compelled to write this blog. Some words deserve time. Some writing deserves to be lingered over. And some poems don’t ask to be understood quickly—only honestly. ***** A little secret of mine is that I read a great deal of her portfolio quietly, without always saying so. When I have a headache or feel especially tired, I often seek out something of hers to read. I discovered her work a while ago and fell in love with her style. I return to her writing again and again—poetry that is deep, layered, and meant to be studied in order to be fully understood. But this piece—this poem she titled Broken Windows—is something else entirely. It is so deeply beautiful that I found myself reading and studying it for quite some time. For your enjoyment: Broken Windows -by Amethyst Snow Angel "Broken Windows"  Why do I recoil against life’s dirge? Mournful Downer notes trumpet through broken windows I board up against treachery—retreating. My heart gathers dust. Christ whispers, “I died for you can you not live for Me?” I pray to open myself, letting love flow through. 9 lines, 43 words For some reason I can't seem to get the spacing to do right so click on the name above to see how the poem is laid out. ***** I say again: To me, this is the very best kind of poetry. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays with you long after the reading ends. I did send her a note about this. Here is a copy of what was said: Thank you for sharing this. I had to sit with it for a while, because it touches on something very real and very tender. I understand what you’re saying here—the instinct to retreat when life feels heavy or unsafe, to board ourselves up after hurt or betrayal, even though part of us knows we were meant to live and love more openly. The image of the heart “gathering dust” especially stayed with me. That quiet stillness, not from lack of feeling but from self-protection, is something I recognize deeply. And the way you describe Christ’s voice as a whisper rather than a command feels important—it reads as an invitation, not judgment. A gentle reminder that life asks something of us, even when we’re tired or afraid. What I hear in this poem isn’t certainty, but honesty. You’re not claiming to have arrived anywhere—you’re naming the struggle between hiding and opening, between retreat and love. That longing to let Love flow through again, even after everything, feels brave to me. Thank you for putting words to something that’s so difficult to say out loud. It helped me feel less alone with feelings I know well. Kind wishes, Tee I did ask her later for her permission to write a blog about this poem and she gave it.  |
Reading Between the Silences Courage allows empathy and discernment to exist side by side, even when suspicion whispers quietly and caring becomes so deep it edges toward heartbreak. Sometimes reading another person’s pain creates pain of its own. Violet discovered this slowly, almost unwillingly, as she moved through the blog and felt something inside her begin to ache in response. Violet was deeply loving by nature, the kind of person who did not skim past sorrow. When she encountered another’s suffering, she carried it with her, letting it settle in her chest as if it were her own. At first, she did not expect this blog to affect her the way it did. She only meant to glance, to read a little, to decide whether it was worth returning to later. Instead, she stayed. She traced the writing from its earliest posts to the most recent ones, following the arc of a life laid out in fragments. Blogs had always felt vulnerable to her. They were not merely words on a screen, but offerings. Invitations into another person’s inner world. Violet entered gently, aware that what she was reading had cost the writer something to share. As the hours passed, her concern deepened. Heartbreak threaded its way through the text. A woman once deeply loved and now gone. Loss that had not softened with time. Despair lingering between sentences. One passage, in particular, caught her breath, a moment where the writer stood frighteningly close to the edge of life itself. Violet felt that pain sharply, as though it reached through the screen and pressed against her own ribs. She cared more than she expected to. Alongside the grief were expressions of longing. A desire for a D/s or M/s connection. Romantic vows written with intensity and devotion. Promises to cherish, to adore, to give happiness through anticipating and fulfilling another’s needs. The words were tender, almost aching in their devotion. Violet wanted to believe them. She truly did. She believed that losing love did not mean it could never be found again. She believed that heartbreak did not disqualify someone from future joy. As she read, she found herself hoping for this man, imagining him healed, steady, loved again. She even caught herself wishing she could help in some small way, if only by understanding him. And then something shifted. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just enough to unsettle her. A few statements gave her pause. Subtle things. Carefully worded declarations that felt rehearsed rather than lived. Moments where vulnerability seemed presented rather than revealed. Violet disliked herself for noticing it, for allowing suspicion to surface alongside compassion. She did not want to question pain. She did not want to doubt suffering. But the feeling would not leave her. She began to wonder whether something important was being held back. Or worse, whether the pain itself was being shaped into something strategic. A way to draw attention. To elicit sympathy. To invite emotionally open women into proximity beneath the banner of shared hurt. The thought tightened her chest. Mistrust did not come easily to Violet. It went against her nature. She wanted to believe people were sincere. She wanted to believe that grief, when spoken aloud, was an honest reaching outward rather than a performance. Yet the tension remained. The careful language. The selective openness. The mystery that lingered just long enough to keep a reader leaning in. She found herself asking questions she wished she did not have to ask. To what end? Attention? Validation? Connection without accountability? The answers mattered, because her heart had already become involved. And that frightened her. She felt torn between empathy and self-protection. Between the urge to comfort and the instinct to step back. She knew that real healing requires truth, not merely beautiful words. Until wounds are faced honestly, they can be used, consciously or not, as currency. Still, Violet did not feel anger. What she felt was sorrow. Sorrow for a man who may truly be hurting. Sorrow for the possibility that pain had become a shield or a lure rather than a bridge. Sorrow that she could not tell which was true. If Violet could have spoken aloud, it would not have been with accusation, but with hope. Hope that the pain was real and not curated. Hope that the longing was genuine and not performative. Hope that love, once lost, could still find its way back to him in a form that was honest and whole. She believed healing was possible. She believed brokenness did not erase worth. But she also believed that love cannot grow where truth is withheld. And so Violet stepped away carrying both concern and caution. Caring, but guarded. Open-hearted, yet awake. Wishing him peace, even as she chose not to surrender herself to uncertainty. Some stories pull us close because they mirror our own tenderness. Others teach the quiet discipline of loving from a distance. Violet was learning the difference, and learning too that courage sometimes means allowing empathy and discernment to exist together. Image is assisted ai digital art by TeeM.  |
 Wings and LightOldkoda sat on a large rock close to the fire. He dressed in traditional garments, a single feather tucked into his hair—more for the children than for himself. A pipe rested in his hand, though he rarely smoked it. It was part of the ritual. When he was ready to begin, he leaned closer to the flames and fed them a single stick. Sparks lifted into the night like tiny stars finding their way home. The children quieted, knees touching, eyes wide. “Listen now,” he said softly, his gaze reflecting firelight. “This is an old story. Older than me. Older than my grandfather’s grandfather. It is a story the fire remembers. It is the story of angel wings.” The flames shifted, casting dancing shadows. “Angels are not born with wings,” Oldkoda began. “No true bearer of light ever is. Wings are not gifts given at birth, and they are never handed freely. They must be grown.” The fire crackled in response, warm and alive. “Wings come from remembering who you are when the world tries to make you forget. They are shaped over many seasons, when life presses hard and the soul must choose, again and again, whether it will close itself to the pain—or open itself and endure.” Oldkoda paused. The hush around them deepened, as if the very night were listening. “There was one soul,” he continued, voice steady, “a lady angel, one among many, who chose that harder path.” “She learned early the weight of living. She learned that grief cuts deeper than the skin, that love always asks more than it promises, and that hope is sometimes nothing more than a small flame cupped in trembling hands through nights that seem to have no end.” The children leaned in, firelight flickering in their wide eyes. Beyond the circle of warmth, the world fell away. “There were times,” he said more softly, “when the sky gave no answers. Times when the path ahead blurred into darkness, silent and unmoving. But still, the angel walked. Still, she loved.” A stick shifted in the flames, sending a spiral of embers upward. “She loved when it would have been safer not to. She loved when kindness cost her dearly. She loved when no one was watching and no reward was waiting. The elders say this is where the first light is born—so faint at first that even the one who carries it cannot see it.” Oldkoda’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And in time, the wings came. Not all at once. Feather by feather, formed from mercy, endurance, and the quiet courage to forgive.” “They were not placed upon her like a crown,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “They rose from her like truth. And with them came something rarer still. The light she had carried in silence for so long began to shine.” The flames leaned inward, as if drawn by the hush. “When her wings finally opened, the heavens did not roar,” Oldkoda whispered. “They leaned closer. This was not a soul trying to escape the earth, but one who had learned to honor it.” He paused, letting the moment breathe. “She did not rise away from the world. The ground did not vanish beneath her. She rose within it.” The children sat perfectly still, as if even their breath might disturb the sacred hush. “Now the stories say she stands between worlds, wings spread wide. Not reflecting the light anymore, but becoming it. What once guided her now flows from her. She does not shine by force—but by presence.” Oldkoda looked at each child in turn. His voice was gentle and reverent. “She is proof that love endured becomes radiance. That compassion which refuses to fade becomes light.” The fire popped, sending sparks into the dark. “She did not steal the light,” Oldkoda finished quietly. “She became it.” A final pause. “That,” he said, smiling softly, “is how all true light is made.” Assisted Ai Digital Art by TeeM.  |
I like to ask people, “What is your happiest memory?” The answers are usually what you would expect. A wedding day. The birth of a child. A hard-won accomplishment. A milestone birthday. So many firsts. This and that. But once in a blue moon, someone gives an answer that stops you in your tracks. One that reaches deeper than events or celebrations and speaks straight to the heart. Those answers reveal so much about a person, don’t you think? And then he answered. “The happiest moment I have ever known was when we were driving to the photographer’s studio and you suddenly blurted out, ‘I really love you.’ You startled yourself when you said it. But in that instant, I knew you were in love with me. And I think that was the happiest I have ever been, bar none.” It was not what I expected him to say. Yet I remember that moment today as vividly as if it had just happened. The light. The motion of the car. The surprise in my own voice. One simple sentence, spoken without planning or hesitation, changed everything. That day was April 10, 1977. We were married on January 27, 1978. Soon we will celebrate 48 years of marriage, with 50 shining just ahead on the horizon. And here is the quiet miracle of it all. We are still happy. Still in love. Blessed by God. He was my first and only blind date in November of 1976. Even though he arrived an hour late, we still went dancing that night. And somehow, we have never really stopped dancing. A special note I treasure. After our first date, he mailed me a card. The couple on the front looked just like us, our perfect doppelgängers. Inside it read, “I woke up this morning and thought of you all day long.” I still have that card. He signed it, “Always and forever, David.” I am a hopeful romantic. I believe in love at first sight. And I live for the happily ever after endings, the ones I write, and the ones I read.  |
This Year Is Ending Looking Back, Looking Forward As this year draws to a close, I find myself slowing down and looking back over the months behind me. It has been a year of writing, learning, remembering, and growing in ways I did not always expect. When I look back, I think about all the words I wrote this year and how much I learned simply by continuing to share my work. Each piece taught me something new, not just about writing, but about myself. Along the way, I made so many new friends and acquaintances. Their encouragement, kindness, and shared creativity added unexpected joy to my days and reminded me that writing is never meant to be a solitary journey. This year also carried the pain of loss. There were mornings when grief felt close and memories stirred emotions I thought had settled. Yet even in those moments, I found comfort in remembering days gone by. Those treasured memories became a quiet gift, reminding me that love does not disappear, it simply changes form. Above all, I am deeply thankful. Thankful for my family, my friends, and the steady love that surrounded me throughout the year. I am especially grateful to God for saving my husband’s life. After days in intensive care, fighting a dangerous blood clot, he was given back to us. Today he is living his full, beautiful life, and that is a blessing I will never take for granted. Looking ahead, I step into the coming year with hope and intention. I plan to continue writing and to keep moving forward on the projects that matter most to me. One of my goals is to complete the next book in the Soulwalker Saga, a story that continues to grow alongside me. The year ahead will also bring new beginnings behind the scenes. I look forward to finalizing details with a new literary agent and finishing a website that I will be excited to share when the time is right. I hope to spend a little more time at the beach condo as well. I never grow tired of the ocean, its calm, its rhythm, and the peace it brings. There are also plans to settle on a direction for our new home in Georgia, finding a design that complements the beauty of the river view. I will continue editing my rom-com projects, reviewing on Writing.com, and encouraging fellow writers whenever I can. Supporting others on their creative paths has become one of the most meaningful parts of my writing life. Most importantly, I want to live a life that honors God and reflects His love. As I move into the new year, my hope is to encourage other Christians through both my words and my actions, offering kindness, grace, and encouragement wherever possible. This year is ending, but its lessons and blessings remain. I step forward grateful for what has been and hopeful for what is still to come. My prayer to close: Dear Father God, As this year comes to a close, I thank You for every lesson, every moment of grace, and every expression of love that carried me through. Please grant peace to my heart, comfort me in moments of grief, and give me renewed hope as I step into the year ahead. Help me to share kindness freely, to love generously, and to walk with compassion in all that I do. Guide my words, my work, and my choices so they honor You. May the coming year be shaped by faith, patience, and understanding, and may Your light continue to shine through my life and into the lives of others. Amen. And to all I wish you a safe, peaceful, healthy, and very HAPPY NEW YEAR!  |
The Reflection in the Rain —by Tee M. She sat quietly, her hands folded, her gaze fixed on the window where raindrops traced silver rivers down the glass. Outside, the storm raged, thunder rolling like the voice of an old god, lightning splitting the sky with unrelenting fire. But it wasn’t the storm that held her. It was what stared back at her. Through the veil of rain, her reflection appeared—yet not entirely her own. A face emerged, ghostly and softened by the storm’s blur, eyes searching, lips unspoken. Was it simply the play of shadow and storm light? Or was it something more—the echo of herself that she kept hidden, the soul she only met in moments of solitude? In that instant, she wondered: Was she looking out into the storm, or was the storm looking back into her? Perhaps the truth is this: when the world outside grows wild, the mirror within begins to speak. And in the silence between the thunder, she realized the reflection was not a stranger at all. It was her truest self, waiting patiently for her to see it. Sometimes, it takes a storm to recognize who you are and to hear the voice of your own reflection.  |
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