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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. |
| She is a peek-a-pom. Bella and the Simple Joy of Right Now Some days, happiness looks complicated. Long to-do lists, buzzing phones, plans stacked on plans. And then there are days when happiness looks exactly like this. Bella stretched out in the grass, tail fluffed like a small cloud, eyes bright, and her favorite red ball tucked close as if it’s the most important treasure in the world. Bella has a way of reminding me how simple joy can be. Fresh air. Green grass under her paws. A toy she loves. A moment where nothing else matters. She doesn’t worry about what comes next or what didn’t go quite right earlier. She’s fully here, fully herself, and completely content. I love how her expression always seems to say she’s in on a secret. Maybe it’s that life doesn’t need to be loud to be good. Maybe it’s that play is important at every age. Or maybe it’s just that love, when it’s genuine, shows up in the smallest moments. This photo captures Bella exactly as she is. Playful. Calm. Confident. Happy to just be. And honestly, that feels like a pretty good lesson for the rest of us too.  |
The Night of the Skunk (A True Story) Funny story. And I swear, every word of this is true. The year before we got married, my husband and I went to the beach with his family. One night, hoping for a little time alone, we decided to sneak off for dinner by ourselves. It felt wonderfully grown-up and a little rebellious in the way only engaged couples understand. To stretch the evening just a bit longer, he drove us through a new development nearby and parked on the street. No houses yet. No streetlights. Just darkness and quiet. That was when my nerves kicked in. Being parked somewhere that remote suddenly felt like a terrible idea, so we decided to head back to the beach house his parents had rented. On the way, though, we came upon a skunk standing squarely in the middle of the road. We stopped. Neither of us wanted to hit it and spend the rest of the trip smelling like regret. A truck pulled up from the opposite direction and stopped as well. The driver got out and started walking toward the skunk like this was a perfectly normal thing to do. I rolled down my window and asked him if he wasn’t worried about getting sprayed. He calmly told us it was someone’s pet skunk that a little girl had lost, and they were trying to catch it. Because that is, apparently, a sentence that exists. (Yes, I know how ridiculous this sounds. I’m hearing it too.) Trying to be helpful, we drove to a nearby phone booth and called the local police, assuming they might know how to handle a missing pet skunk situation. The woman who answered the phone asked my husband if he was drunk. We were not. We went back anyway and made a sincere attempt to help catch the little sucker, but the skunk had other plans and disappeared into the night. Eventually, the police did show up—mostly to laugh and point at us. By the time we finally made it back to the beach house, it was nearly 3 a.m. His mother met us at the door, already upset that we had been gone so long. We told her the skunk story. The next morning, we told the rest of the family. No one believed us. Not one person. We later found out—ten years later—that the family never believed us. Not then. Not later. Not ever. But we still know what we saw. And somewhere out there, I like to think, a little girl got her pet skunk back… and a couple of police officers still tell that story for a good laugh. Some memories don’t need witnesses. They just need to be true. |
Where She Sees What Is to Be There are stories that arrive fully formed, and others that come to us as a feeling first. A presence. A pairing. A sense of balance held so perfectly it feels ancient. This one began with an image of two beings standing together, not by chance, but by design. Where she sees what is to be, He stands between her and the dark, Two mystic souls, one sacred spark. She is the one who sees forward. Not just tomorrow or next year, but the unseen threads that weave destiny together. Her gift is not loud. It does not demand attention. It is quiet, heavy, and often lonely. To see the future is to carry the weight of knowing what may come and choosing when to speak and when to remain silent. And beside her stands the guardian. He does not see the future the way she does. His gift is different, but no less vital. He lives in the present, in instinct and devotion. He reads the world as it is, sensing danger before it takes form. Where she understands possibility, he understands threat. Where she holds knowledge, he holds the line. This is not a story about dominance or rescue. It is about balance. She does not need him because she is weak. He does not protect her because she cannot stand alone. They are stronger because they stand together. There is something deeply human in that idea, even when wrapped in myth and moonlight. We all carry pieces of both roles within us. The part that dreams, plans, hopes, and imagines what could be. And the part that guards, endures, and refuses to let the darkness take more than it should. Together, they represent a truth I keep returning to in my writing: that beauty is not fragile, and strength is not cruel. That intuition and protection are not opposites, but partners. Some secrets are meant to be guarded. Some futures are meant to be protected. And sometimes, the most powerful magic of all is not prophecy or strength, but loyalty chosen again and again. Two mystic souls. One sacred spark. The story turned out to be a poem: Hush Read it here |
| Creativity doesn’t disappear because writers lack talent; it fades when it’s asked to justify itself too early, too often, and to the wrong people. Blog Some time ago, I received a detailed review of a chapter I had been working on for months. The feedback was thoughtful, confident, and thorough — and after reading it, I closed the document and didn’t write a single word for the rest of the day. Nothing was “wrong,” exactly. But something in me went quiet. I kept turning the comments over in my head, wondering whether my voice was enough, whether I was telling the story the “right” way, and whether I should keep revising until it fit expectations I couldn’t quite name. What Actually Keeps Creativity Alive If you’re a writer, you’ve probably felt this at some point. You sit down to write because something inside you wants to be said. A story. A feeling. A truth you can’t quite name yet. You follow it onto the page, and for a while, it feels alive. Real. Yours. Then you share it. And suddenly, the room fills with opinions. Detailed ones. Confident ones. Often well-meaning. Sometimes helpful. Sometimes loud enough to drown out your own inner voice. And without noticing exactly when it happens, the question shifts. It stops being, “Is this true to what I’m trying to say?” And becomes, “Is this what they expect?” That’s usually where creativity starts to wobble. Creativity doesn’t disappear because writers lack discipline or talent. It fades when it’s asked to justify itself too early, too often, and to the wrong people. So what actually keeps creativity alive? First, creativity needs permission to be unfinished. Early drafts aren’t arguments. They’re explorations — you feeling your way forward in the dark. When every version of a story has to explain itself or defend its choices, imagination tends to shut down. Creativity needs room to be awkward, nonlinear, even messy. Sometimes you need to be able to say, “I don’t know what this is yet, but I need to follow it.” Second, creativity thrives on resonance, not consensus. One person who genuinely feels what you’re doing is worth more than ten people measuring it against a checklist. Consensus smooths edges. Resonance sharpens them. When someone says, “I don’t fully understand this yet, but something about it stayed with me,” creativity grows bolder. Third, instinct has to come before technique. Technique is important. It refines. It strengthens. But instinct is where stories are born. When instinct gets overridden too early by rules and expectations, creativity retreats. When technique is applied later, in service of the original impulse, creativity expands. Writers don’t lose their voice because they lack skill. They lose it when they stop trusting where that voice came from. Fourth, creativity needs breaks from judgment. Judgment has a sound. Writers know it well. Creativity, on the other hand, grows in quieter places — in wandering, in play, in moments when nothing is being evaluated. Sometimes the best thing you can do for your work is to step away from critique entirely and let the story rest until your voice feels like your own again. Fifth, creativity feeds on meaning, not approval. The moment the driving question becomes, “Will this be accepted?” creativity flinches. When the question is, “Is this true?” creativity leans forward. Stories that last are rarely born from the desire to be approved of. They come from the need to say something that feels necessary. Sixth, originality often feels lonely before it feels understood. New voices don’t always land smoothly. They don’t fit neatly into familiar frameworks, and that discomfort can make people try to correct them instead of listening. That doesn’t mean the work is wrong. Often, it just means it’s early. Or different. Or brave in a quiet way. And finally, creativity survives through boundaries. Not every opinion deserves equal weight. Writers have to decide when feedback comes in, whose voices matter, and when the door closes again. Boundaries aren’t walls. They’re breathing space. They protect the fragile moment when something new is still becoming. Creativity isn’t fragile. It’s shy. It steps forward when it feels safe. It retreats when it feels managed. What keeps creativity alive isn’t constant correction. It’s trust. Trust in instinct. Trust in time. Trust that a unique voice doesn’t need to be shaped into something familiar to be valuable. For writers everywhere, the work isn’t just telling stories. It’s protecting the conditions that allow stories to be born at all. If you’re a writer who has ever gone quiet after a review, or felt your story slipping away under too many well-intended corrections, you’re not broken — and your voice isn’t weak. Creativity doesn’t need constant management. It needs trust. It needs space. And sometimes, it needs you to close the door, turn back to the page, and listen for your own voice again. Are you hearing your own creative voice? That voice is still there. It always is. |
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