You’ve wandered into soil I hold sacred. Not because it’s tidy or proven or full of answers, but because it’s where I’ve learned to listen— to dreams, to quiet aches, to the slow and holy work of becoming.

This space was never meant to be loud. It’s not a stage or a spotlight. It’s a garden. A quiet one. Where questions are welcome, wonder is tended, and healing comes softly.

Here, I gather what’s been entrusted to me: stories that rise from the ache, poems that echo in stillness, dreams that carry their own kind of truth. Some bloom in full color. Others are just seeds.

I don’t write from the mountaintop. I write from the soil—hands still messy from digging. If you’re here, perhaps you’ve come searching. Or maybe you’ve come tired.

Either way, linger. There’s room. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Sometimes, the waiting is the growing. Welcome to the garden.

 

With dirt under my nails,
The Gardener