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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 |
Some characters arrive quietly. They don’t announce themselves with plot twists or dramatic backstories. They simply begin to exist, and the more time you spend with them, the more they reveal who they are. This is how I’ve been getting to know one of the girls in the saga I’m writing. I listen. I imagine her in still moments. I watch how the world responds to her before the story ever asks her to act. Her name is Violet. She moves through the world in a way that makes even the wind seem to slow down and listen. She never seeks attention. She walks softly, barefoot when she can, her fingers drifting through tall grass or brushing the rough bark of trees as if greeting old friends. To her, every living thing matters. Birds, trees, the earth, the sky, animals, people—nothing feels separate. All of it deserves peace and kindness. She speaks to the moon as though it might answer, and when she sings, the wind carries her voice as if it knows exactly where it belongs. Her songs hold the clarity of starlight and the ache of something ancient—pure in the way one imagines an angel might sound. The animals are always the first to understand her. She never frightens them, and they never fear her. It began when she was very young, sitting on the porch steps of her family’s country home. A tiny hummingbird fluttered down beside her, trembling. Its beak was bent, its wings shivering with exhaustion. She whispered softly—nonsense, really, just a stream of comfort only her heart understood—and when she cupped the fragile creature in her hands, she gently straightened its beak. By morning it was gone, but a single feather rested on the step beside her, as if left there on purpose. As the years pass, word seems to spread in the secret language of fur and feather. Horses nicker when she walks by. Barn cats trail her shadow like quiet guardians. Even the shy fox that lingers at the edge of the woods pauses long enough to meet her eyes before slipping back into the trees. Her family notices too. From the kitchen window, her mother sometimes watches with hands still in the dishwater, her heart tightening with something tender she can’t quite name. “That child,” she murmurs, “was born with heaven stitched into her voice.” When the land itself feels restless or the day’s work grows heavy, she wanders out to the pasture and sits among the clover. The colts gather around her, lowering their heads until her fingers brush their soft forelocks. Birds perch nearby, curious and unafraid. And if one of the younger children comes to her crying over a scraped knee or a broken toy, she draws them close, her voice low and steady, as if she believes the world can heal itself through kindness if given the chance. In my mind, she is like the moon—gentle, steady, quietly powerful. The same light that calls the wolves seems to call her too, but it teaches her to mend rather than hunt. She never speaks about whatever gift she carries. She simply keeps showing up, calm and constant, her laughter bright enough to make the dogs bark and the roosters crow. Wherever she goes, something wild follows. Not out of need, but trust. And sometimes, when twilight settles and the hills turn silver, she hums to the night. The sound drifts beyond the fence line, into the dark woods and the listening hearts hidden there—reminding them that gentleness is still a kind of strength. This is how I come to know a character—by meeting them before the story begins, and letting them show me who they are. |
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