Month: August 2025

Where the Wind Lays It Down

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth


“The forest never asks the storm why it came; it simply bends, sheds, and begins again.”

The wind bends through the trees

in a language only the leaves understand,

a soft push, a whispered lifting,

a reminder that even the heaviest branches

can sway.

Above me, the sky is stitched in blues

deep as secrets in one breath,

light as forgiveness in another.

The pines stand like sentinels,

their green unwavering,

while some branches hold the yellow

of quiet endings.

Others are bare,

their story already returned to the earth.

Light slips between the gaps,

casting shapes across the grass,

the way truth sneaks through silence.

A bird trusts my open hand,

takes a peanut,

and disappears into the moving green.

All around me

cones scattered like unwritten sentences,

blackberries winding their own wild paragraphs,

shadows folding and unfolding

as clouds wander by

chaos and peace live side by side,

neither asking permission of the other.

Here, betrayals fall like pine cones.

They hit the ground with a weight

you cannot always hear,

but you can feel.

Left long enough,

the sharp edges soften,

they sink into the soil,

they turn to compost.

Not gone,

but changed.

And yet,

in the curated corners of the world,

none of this is written.

Only the polished pictures remain,

smiles framed without the ones

who bore the weight.

The heavy lifters left outside the lens,

while those untouched by the labor

stand centered in the frame,

as if they had carried it all along.

But the forest keeps the full story.

It holds the fallen and the standing,

the loyal roots and the broken limbs.

It tells me:

Feel the break.

Release the weight.

Root again.

And so I lay it here,

at the feet of the pines,

where wind can carry what I cannot,

where the ground knows

how to turn even the deepest cuts

into something that can grow again.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The unraveling, the walk through the parts of the forest no one shows on social media!!!

The Day of Allowing

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“When you stop resisting what you feel, the storm becomes part of the sky.”

This day carries two worlds.

One is quiet, a field wrapped in ferns and trees, where the grass breathes beneath my feet and small wildflowers bow in the breeze. The air holds no hurry, only the slow turning of the sun across the sky. It is a place away from the hum of preparation, away from voices, away from the invisible weight that gathers in the presence of too many expectations.

The other world waits at the lake. There, the water glistens like it is holding its breath, catching light in sharp silver fragments. The sound of laughter drifts across the surface, tangled with movement and unspoken tension. It is close enough to touch, yet far enough that I can step away, returning to the stillness where silence settles like a friend beside me.

Between these two worlds, something significant unfolds. A gathering large enough to stir deep currents, filled with people whose histories are intertwined with mine, some bound by love, others by fracture. There are unspoken allegiances here, silent decisions to stand beside one person by turning away from another. There are those whose eyes meet mine with warmth, and others who cannot look at me at all. Words are not always spoken, yet judgments travel in the tilt of a chin, the pause in a greeting, the space someone leaves between us as they pass.

It is a peculiar vantage point — to be so close I could reach out and touch the edges of it, yet far enough to choose not to step inside. From here I can see the weaving of loyalties and the severing of ties. I can watch the way people navigate the discomfort of proximity, the way some drift toward neutrality while others seem easily pulled by the tide of someone else’s version of the truth.

What might have once been painful has become, in its own way, a blessing. Distance has given me a clearer view of human nature — of how quickly stories can take root, how easily one can become a stranger in a place they once belonged. It has shown me the cost of bending to keep the peace, and the rare beauty of standing still while the world decides where it wishes to place you.

Last night, as we sat talking, we saw what we thought was a distant light. But it was the moon, full and magnificent, pouring its glow through the trees. Its brilliance turned the night into a silver dream, so bright it felt as though it was speaking directly to us.

And what I love most is that my husband is walking his own path through this day, just as I am. We give each other the freedom to feel without asking for explanations. No one tells the other how to stand, how to think, how to carry the weight of this moment. We trust that however the other needs to be is enough. No conditions. No corrections. Just the grace of allowing.

Allowing has become my quiet revolution. If I want cookies for breakfast, I will. If I want to plant flowers with dirt under my nails, I will. If I want to wander in circles or sit perfectly still, I will. If I want to cry until my chest aches, I will. I am learning that feelings are not fires to be put out. They are rivers to be followed, their currents sometimes wild, sometimes slow, but always moving me toward a wider sea.

When I allow myself to feel, the anxiety loosens sooner. The urge to resist fades. Even the ache softens because it is no longer trapped. And sometimes, in the middle of it all, I find beauty I would have missed if I had tried to control the moment. The way the moon’s light slips between branches, the way a fish breaks the surface of the lake, the way the air feels before rain.

So today, I am here. In both worlds. In all my colors. Moving as I need to move. Breathing as I need to breathe. And in the allowing, I find a freedom I have waited my whole life to meet.

I am the field and the lake,

the stillness and the storm,

and I am free to be both.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The Grace in the Distance

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Not everything that breaks you is meant to harm you.

Some things break you open

The sun has returned after weeping skies

She filters through the trees in ribbons

laying herself across my skin

not in heat

but in hush

I sit with tea and unspoken prayers

surrounded by blooms I coaxed from earth

with trembling hands and whispered hope

Their faces turn toward the light

some nibbled by deer

still, they offer color

still, they sing

The bees perform their ancient symphony

The flag lifts and bows in rhythm

The dogs curl beneath the quiet

And I remain

rooted in the moment

and in myself

There is movement

on the other side of this sacred line

Footsteps

Voices

Wheels on gravel

A pageant of joy

gathering just beyond the reach of my porch

But I am not within it

And that

is its own kind of grace

Where I once felt displaced

I now feel delivered

Where I once felt wounded

I now feel softened

I do not have to clean up a mess I didn’t build,

do not have to perform where presence is a prop,

do not have to enter with an external masking of internal emotions to protect another

that reveres illusion more than truth

Instead

I sit among the wild things

and let them teach me

There is no truth in the now

Truth comes in the waiting

in the stillness

in the sediment of experience

as it falls and finds its resting place

like a stone drifting through water

It doesn’t crash

It settles

And that takes time

If you reach too soon

you interrupt its shape

If you speak too early

you miss the language of its silence

So I wait

not passively

but reverently

for what the ache may unveil

in its own unhurried way

There was a time I thought harm had a name

that betrayal wore a face

that what felt like breaking me was orchestrated by cruelty

But now

I see more clearly

What once felt venomous

was strangely medicinal

An unexpected chrysalis

forcing me inward

unfolding what I did not know I carried

They weren’t striking me

They were sculpting me

I mistook the pressure as punishment

But it was pressure that carved the poem from the stone

And somewhere

beneath the sunrise and sunset of this gathering

I hear it

soft

familiar

true

Don’t worry

I got you

A dragonfly swirls again in circles

its wings glistening like truth before it lands

and lifts again

It hovers

then flutters toward the sound next door

before returning

like it never left

Inside

we navigate each other’s tenderness

without a map

without a manual

just breath

just small offerings of presence

We’ve prepared to stay

We’ve prepared to leave

But I no longer want to run

There is medicine in staying

even when it stings

even when it echoes

even when it bends the heart

and shakes the voice

Because sometimes

the deepest healing

asks you to remain

asks you to feel it all

asks you to stop being afraid

of hearing what the silence says

What once looked like a path through torturous waters

now shows me a beautiful reflection of calm

I wait

with the bees

with the blooms

with the flag that waves with memories

I wait

with the shadows

and the light

and the truth I no longer rush to name

And I learn

that I am not the one unraveling

I am the one becoming

The Gathering among us

Let them gather

Let the music rise

Let the laughter spill across lines you no longer need to cross

You are not missing the moment

You are meeting yourself

In the stillness

In the choice to remain

In the sacred blooming

of what cannot be taken

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The Art of Seeing: When Doing Less Reveals More

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“There is a rhythm beneath the rush. Wait long enough in silence, and you’ll hear it calling you home.”

There was a time I thought life was about doing.

Doing to be worthy.

Doing to be seen.

Doing to make others comfortable.

Doing to keep up.

Doing so I wouldn’t fall behind.

But somewhere between exhaustion and awakening, I stumbled into the beauty of seeing.

Not watching from a distance.

Not checking out.

But really seeing.

I began to notice the pull of my own breath, the shift of light on water, the way truth rises when I’m still, long enough to let it. I noticed that the world doesn’t actually need me to race it. That sometimes, the most powerful thing I can do is nothing, until the inner knowing says, Now.

We’re taught to override that knowing.

To push through.

To check boxes.

To be agreeable, efficient, productive.

But something sacred lives beneath all that noise.

And it reveals itself when I stop trying to explain who I am and just live it.

It reveals itself when I stop trying to fix things for others, and simply honor what I need.

It reveals itself when I wait, and listen, and inform not to be understood, but to stay in integrity with myself.

Seeing has softened me.

It has freed me from the grip of performance.

It has made me better, more aware.

And somehow, life still gets done.

In better ways.

Truer ways.

More wholeheartedly and less rushed.

When we learn to see instead of do, we don’t miss life.

We become it.

The Stillness That Moves

They said,

do more,

be more,

prove it.

So I danced in circles

of everyone else’s urgency,

chasing worth in mirrors

that never saw me.

But the trees never asked me to hurry.

The sky never measured my value

by the weight of my to-do list.

The river moved, even when I didn’t.

And in that stillness,

I began to see

the hush between words,

the whisper in my chest

that knew when to wait,

and when to rise.

Not everything grows by force.

Not every truth needs explanation.

Not every moment needs a task.

I am learning the rhythm

of unseen things

how clarity comes when I inform,

even when my voice shakes,

even when silence feels safer.

I am learning that

the deepest presence

is not in doing more

but in being true.

And in that truth,

everything that matters

gets done.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

Glistening Grace

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Some mornings whisper before they sing yet still, they rise, and so do we.”

There’s something about the way light rests on the water before the day knows its name

a stillness that speaks louder than certainty.

The sun doesn’t ask for permission to rise it simply does.

And in its quiet emergence through the softened veil of clouds,

it reminds us that we too can arrive gently,

without a plan, without an answer just with presence.

This morning, I watched light kiss the water’s skin,

thousands of glistening reflections of sunlight dancing like diamonds on the surface,

each one a reflection of something waiting to be seen

something already within me, quietly asking to be noticed.

Sometimes, we don’t know what the day will bring.

We don’t have to.

The sky still opens.

The sun still climbs.

The water still glistens.

Gratitude isn’t in the knowing

it’s in the noticing.

And today, I noticed…

the way breath feels like a beginning,

the way stillness can sing,

the way the soul thirsts for light

just as the body thirsts for water.

So drink, dear one

drink from the sky’s unfolding,

from the well of your own quiet joy.

Let your cells and your spirit both be nourished.

Let the day meet you in your softness.

Let love rise with you, like the sun.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

When the Holding Softens

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Love without needing to be heard. Witness without needing to be seen. This is the way the heart learns to let go without breaking.”

There is a quiet shift that arrives when the nest no longer holds the noise, the rhythm, the needs of others,but the heart still holds everything.

Not the same everything. Not the packed lunches or the sleepless nights or the doorways filled with shoes.

But the echoes.

The scent of memories.

The weightless presence of all that was, still moving through all that is.

It comes quietly, without applause.

Like fog over still water, blurring the lines of who you were and who you’re becoming.

The role of “mother” does not disappear.

But it loosens.

The edges fray.

And what remains is not a void, but a sacred space.

A space you were never taught to hold.

This is not the story of being forgotten.

This is the story of becoming.

Of learning to love in a new way.

Without grasping.

Without needing to be needed.

You learn to love like the tide loves the shore—arriving gently, without demand.

You stop fixing, and start witnessing.

You no longer chase understanding.

You offer presence instead of proof.

Some days it feels like grieving.

Like a door closed too softly to notice it shut.

Other days it feels like freedom.

Like your name returning to your own mouth.

You learn to notice when your presence holds too much weight,

when your words carry more pressure than peace.

You practice softening.

You practice stepping back without stepping away.

Sometimes they don’t call.

Sometimes they rewrite the story without asking you to hold a pen.

Sometimes love looks like letting go of the version of closeness you once knew.

But here’s what remains:

The roots are still in the earth.

The sky still knows your prayers.

And you, the one who gave and gave and gave,

now turn inward

to the woman inside the mother,

to the soul behind the role.

You are not waiting for them to return.

You are returning to yourself.

The Weightless Way

Let it be light,

the way you love them now.

Not a weight,

not a wound,

not a wish pressed too tightly

into their becoming.

Let it be the way the sun loves the morning—

with presence, not pressure.

Let it be the way the tide meets the shore—

without clinging, without asking for anything back.

Let your hands rest.

They’ve built enough altars.

They’ve held what they could not keep.

Now they open.

Not in surrender

but in blessing.

You are not what you were to them.

You are what remains when all roles dissolve—

and that,

that is everything.