Joy In One Palm

I woke to a day holding both light and shadow.
Some call it the cycle of life;
others feel it as joy in one palm, grief in the other.
A candle lit for a birthday—
a beautiful young soul stepping into a milestone—
and, in the same breath, a farewell
to a childhood peer now carried by memory.
Two moments balanced on the same scale,
measuring the weight of being alive.
Life is kind.
Life is beautiful.
Life is merciful.
It does not judge, nor does it discriminate,
and sometimes—perhaps in service of something greater—
it is heartbreakingly brief.
We are given only a handful of days
on this island called Earth.
So why not honor them?
Why not let them shimmer?
Why not live effervescently,
as if each breath matters—because it does.
Celebrate life—
its milestones and missteps,
its adventures and aching headaches,
its quiet blessings disguised as noise.
Remain in grace.
Choose presence over anger.
Choose joy over misery, the conquest of the night.
Choose to dance.
And there we are—
lost in a fog of I don’t know what.

Life And Its Seasons

Everything in life has its season to emerge, to flourish, and to bear fruit. Those who plant always carry the expectation of a good harvest, and along the way, they learn the art of patience and emotional balance. They understand that growth requires space, steady dedication, work from dawn to dusk, and trust the process, learn to wait, have faith, which quietly performs the miracle of birth until the day of harvest arrives.

To reap is to complete a task with honor. It is the natural reward for those who uses time wisely to care for what is theirs to do—work that brings both purpose and pleasure. As the say goes: “Sow and create, and joy will be yours.” And as the day springs to life, brimming with promises calling us to bathe in the warmth and radiance of tomorrow, may it become as beautiful and joyous as we hope. Smile always as life is for the living.

The Sugar in Your Lemonade

They say the water is fresh, but it tastes like lava. Like an orange flame in the sky, torture souls in the ground. It is the water fountain at the edge of the road, cars and people going by, and no one is saying hi. It cries intoxicatingly, bleeding profusely for a clean bed, a beautiful skirt, and a clean underwear, but no one cares. Stinky feet marching through like soldiers in the battlefield, livid daylight testimonials pearcing through the book pages like a salad on the menu, rocks giving it a purpose to live. Shut up, they utter, anguish dribbling in her face we see, dry tears dripping through yesterday’s scars for today’s newspaper is heard on the loud speaker. It bleeds still, I see it, you see it, they see it but no one seem to care as it appears I can’t seem to stop the train from rolling through the mud but He can. So, we wait!

Sometimes, your soul just needs to be fed.