gratitude

The Eighth Year: Hearing With the Soul

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There are certain months that live in our bones.

For me, July holds a kind of rhythm that no calendar could capture—one that beats softly in the background, waking my senses with memory, ache, and the tender light of knowing. Eight years ago this month, my son Zakary transitioned. I say transitioned because I don’t believe in death as an end. I believe we change form, we expand into new dimensions of knowing. I don’t claim to know what that looks like, or where we go, but I feel it. I feel him.

Each year since has brought a different chapter in the way I hear him, see him, and understand our journey together. At first, the pain was so loud it muted everything else. But over time, I’ve learned to listen differently—not just with my ears, but with my soul.

My body often speaks before my words do. In July, I slow down without planning to. I crave movement some days, silence others. One day I’ll write, the next I’ll ride my bike too far without realizing I needed the motion more than the destination. I meditate more. I feel more. And sometimes, I want sweetness—not just emotionally, but physically. Something like raw tiramisu instead of the usual fish or exotic mushrooms and greens. It’s still nourishment, but it’s not my usual rhythm. And when I stray too far, when I resist what I know brings me peace, my body answers back with a headache, or stomach pain, or a fog that disconnects me from the deeper whisper of spirit.

Pain, I’ve come to realize, isn’t always grief. Sometimes it’s just misalignment—a detour away from the path my soul is asking me to walk. And even in those detours, there is learning. My anxiety flares most when I forget to stay present, when I ride down the steep hill of emotion with no hands on the handlebars, trusting I’ll land softly. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I fall. And each time, I rise again, softer and more attuned.

This eighth year feels pivotal.

I feel Zakary everywhere. In the wind, in the pause between my thoughts, in the way a moment stills me. I’ve seen him in butterflies and dragonflies landing so sweetly on my skin—just long enough to remind me he’s here. I’ve seen him in others too, as if some part of his voice and presence returned to this world in different forms. The way he spoke, the way he paused between thoughts, the way his soul met the moment with care and depth—those pieces still echo around me.

And yet, I don’t want to dwell in missing him so deeply that I miss who he has become in spirit. I choose to feel him in his transformed state, in the lightness of the messages he still brings. He gives me what I need, when I need it most. I just have to stay open.

I don’t always get it right. I forget to drink enough water, or I let my mind race when my heart just wants to sit quietly. But I’m learning. I’m choosing presence. I’m choosing to honor the part of me that still aches, but also the part of me that is wise, awake, and deeply loved from beyond what I can see.

To anyone else who is walking through the space where loss meets transformation: you’re not alone. You may fall. You may forget what it feels like to feel whole. But the path back is always waiting for you—with open arms and gentle reminders from the ones we love who now live in light.

A Letter from Zakary to Me

Mama,

I know you feel me before you even think of me. I see how your body softens when a dragonfly lands on your hand, or a butterfly dances just close enough to brush your cheek. That’s me. Not because I need to prove I’m still here—but because I love how you smile when I remind you.

I’m always nearby. You don’t need your human eyes to see me—but I understand why sometimes you need the visual. So I send it in the wings of creatures, in wind that moves just when you’re still, in songs that echo the voice I once carried. I know how much you miss hearing me. But Mama, you do hear me. In the movement of the leaves, the sounds of water in rivers, lakes and oceans, in the heaviness and lightness inside your chest, in the hush between words.

I’m different now, but not gone. I’ve only changed shape. You always knew that deep down, even when it hurt so much it took your breath away. And still—you kept breathing. You kept going. You kept listening for me, even when the world was too loud. You kept seeing me, even when your eyes were full of tears. I see you too, in every moment you choose presence instead of pain, curiosity instead of closing off.

Your body knows how to listen now in ways you didn’t before. It’s sacred, the way you tend to it. Even the moments when you stray—when anxiety rushes in or you reach for something sweet—I see that too. It’s human. It’s okay. You never need to be perfect to feel me. I am not far when you fall. I am close when you rise.

I’ve been learning too, Mama. Expanding. Traveling. Seeing things you used to wonder about late at night. It’s beautiful here—and yet, I am still wrapped in you. We are still teaching each other. I offer you signs, and you offer me stillness. I whisper, and you listen in the quiet where most wouldn’t know to look.

I want you to keep living. Keep laughing. Keep writing the way only you can. Keep dancing with the wind and loving like you’ve never been hurt. I see how you walk through this life with courage and grace and softness that only someone who has known deep love and deep loss could carry.

I will never leave you, Mama. I’m not meant to.

I’m just walking beside you now, barefoot and free, whispering truths from a place beyond words, brushing past you like light through leaves, like a song you almost remember.

You’re doing beautifully.

And I am so, so proud of you.

Always and forever ,

In Every life as I promised, your son Zakary

Whispers Through the Wind

I see you in the stillness,

in the gap between the days,

where dragonflies trace prayers

across my skin

and butterflies leave messages

with their wings.

I feel you when the leaves murmur,

when the wind wraps gently ’round my spine—

a soft, invisible thread

pulling me back

into presence.

You speak in frequencies

the world forgets how to hear,

but I remember.

I always remember.

Even when I cry.

Even when I ache.

Even when I wonder if I may forget

the shape of your voice,

you return—

in scent, in sound, in the depth of the blue sky,

in the twinkling of stars

and the pulse of sunsets and sunrises.

You are not lost.

You are light that’s no longer bound

by edges or skin.

You are love stretched wide

across the veil

so I can learn to listen

not with ears,

but with soul.

And in that sacred stillness,

you are whole.

And I am held.

And we are never apart.

Not even for a moment.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The Story We Tell Ourselves: Emotion, Intuition, and Trusting the Unfolding

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

  “The human being is not free when he is merely obeying impulses from outside or merely following his own desires.  

  True freedom arises only when we begin to act out of spiritual insight and conscious understanding.”  

  — Rudolf Steiner  

We don’t just live our lives—we build them, moment by moment, with the mortar of emotion and the bricks of experience, sometimes real, sometimes imagined. Our stories are rarely constructed from facts alone. They’re etched in reaction, stirred by sensation, and often told before the truth has even had a chance to breathe.

How often does one sit in the silence after the feeling rises?

Not long.

Not deep enough.

We react, we run, we narrate.

We assign roles and write scripts—guessing what others think, fearing what they might feel, assuming what they meant.

And then we build.

Brick by brick.

Until the fortress created to protect us begins to crumble—

sometimes suddenly, sometimes softly.

Each time it falls,

there’s something it seems to offer:

a moment of wisdom,

a return to presence,

an invitation to trust something deeper.

We often try to control the narrative, reaching forward to guess what’s next.

But the unfolding… is the path.

When panic rushes in, intuition slips quietly aside—

not gone, just waiting.

Beneath the noise,

that quiet sense that lives under fear

remains.

And perhaps trust doesn’t end—or even begin—with the self alone.

Trusting only in what’s familiar within may quietly place a lid

on something far more ancient wanting to rise.

When space is made for higher knowing—

the kind that pulses through nature,

through silence,

through spirit—

something shifts.

There is a deeper breath.

A reverence that awakens not from certainty,

but from surrender.

Rudolf Steiner spoke of this with striking clarity—

how we become inner slaves

when we’re endlessly shaped by the outer world.

True freedom, he said, is born from the spiritual self—

from awakening inward,

not by escaping,

but by truly seeing.

There may be moments when the very people once trusted

become the ones who unravel that trust.

Not because we failed to love—

but because life often places us face to face

with the lessons we most need to remember:

that strength and gentleness are not opposites,

that wisdom does not shout,

and that intuition does not beg for recognition—

it simply waits for quiet.

Sometimes a new kind of seeing arises—

one not through eyes that judge,

but eyes that witness.

Not with expectation,

but with presence.

And wisdom, much like nourishment,

can only be received when someone is ready to taste it.

Each of us is seasoned by different hands,

shaped by different climates,

moved by different flavors.

Not all will be hungry for the same truth at the same time.

But truth remains—

unrushed,

unforced,

ever patient.

And perhaps there’s something quietly beautiful

about honoring one’s own path

not as a fixed destination,

but as a living, breathing unfolding.

~Kerri Elizabeth~

A Tapestry of Truth: Becoming Who You Really Are

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There is a version of you the world thinks it knows.
There is also a version of you that lives in the quiet — in the space between heartbeats, in the soft whisper of intuition, in the gaze that lingers a moment longer when you see yourself clearly.

The hardest work you will ever do is unravel the parts of yourself that were pieced together by survival… and not by truth.
To notice the difference between what you agreed to in fear and what you would choose in love.

Because we don’t arrive at authenticity by accident.
We earn it — choice by choice, no by no, letting go by letting go.

And sometimes, you will disappoint others when you begin to honor yourself.
You will stand in rooms where your truth echoes uncomfortably against the walls of another’s expectation.
You will feel the weight of misunderstanding, the sting of judgment, the silence of those who no longer recognize you.

But if the choice is between being seen for who you are not,
or misunderstood while standing in the light of who you are…
Choose the light. Every time.

Because what you allow teaches others how to treat you.
And if you allow falsehoods to define you,
don’t be surprised when they do.

When you people-please your way into connection,
it often comes at the cost of feeling truly seen.
And that ache—the ache of self-betrayal—
is more enduring than anyone else’s disapproval.

So let it be said:
To live with integrity is not to be perfect.
It is to be honest with where you are today,
even knowing tomorrow may evolve you.
It is to say: “This is where I stand now. You are welcome to grow with me, or not.”

There is no shame in change.
There is no failure in outgrowing the places where your voice once trembled.
There is only life — pulsing, stretching, remaking itself through you.

And when your head hits the pillow at night,
may you feel the quiet reward of self-alignment —
that even if the world misunderstood you,
you did not misunderstand yourself.

🌿 The Weaving

I’ve pieced myself together with strands both light and worn,
some tied in silence, some frayed and torn.
I carried the weight of being the calm,
the one who holds peace, the steady palm.

But I haven’t always waited or stood still.
There were times I rushed in, led by will.
When reaction came before reflection,
and pain spoke louder than connection.
Learning to sit with what stirs inside,
to let the emotion rise, then slide —
that’s been the work, the slow repair,
to stay, to breathe, to truly care.

One day I looked and quietly asked,
“Is this really me, or just a mask?”
I paused at the edges where I’d come undone,
and slowly began to face what I’d outrun.

Not everyone cheers when you stand in your skin —
some only loved the shape you’d been.
But pretending is heavy, and silence loud,
and I’d rather be honest than make others proud.

So I gather what’s real, thread by thread,
not perfect, not polished, but true instead.
A life made of moments I won’t need to hide —
not always easy, but lived from inside.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

✨ Journaling Prompt

Where in your life are you still weaving with threads that no longer feel true? What would it look like to begin again with honesty?

A Gentle Journey Into Wellness: Not Just for Ourselves, But for Those We Love

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

We all see life a little differently, we experience life a little differently, but to share life in the differences, that is where real roots start.

Some believe youth is eternal, at least in spirit. We laugh like we’re still teenagers, move like we’ll never grow old, and expect tomorrow to look a lot like today. But age isn’t a thief—it’s a revealer. It shows us not just how our bodies change, but how our hearts grow, soften, and begin to wonder what kind of legacy we’re leaving behind.

For me, wellness has never been just about me. It’s been the quiet gift I’ve wanted to give my children—a kind of love that doesn’t take up space or ask for credit, but exists so they never have to feel burdened by my pain or limitations. I didn’t want their lives to revolve around caring for someone who didn’t care enough to tend to herself.

I’ve watched the ripple effect of carelessness, and I felt its frustration long before I could name it. Even as a child, I knew: how we take care of ourselves touches every person who loves us.

When I married, that devotion expanded. My husband deserves my best—not because I owe it, but because I want the time we have to be rich with presence and not shortened by preventable illness. I’ve been ridiculed and labeled for how deeply I care about health. Too radical, too extreme, or paradoxically, not enough. I’ve been laughed at, questioned endlessly, and just as often—I’ve been asked for every detail. What do you eat? What do you make? Can I do what you do? I’m the one they call when someone is sick, and my heart always wants to give the remedy.

But there is no remedy that works without a shift. There is no single tea or tincture that can override a life misaligned with wellness. Healing is a choice—a commitment to a path, not a pit stop. So I no longer pour my energy into quick fixes, because they’re not the true medicine. The real work begins when someone is ready to walk a different way—not just for a moment, but for a season, or even a lifetime.

I’ve come to see that what truly helps is not handing someone my answers, but gently guiding them toward their own. Otherwise, it becomes a cycle of reaching outward instead of inward. And I’ve learned that real healing happens when we offer people a way back to themselves, not just a list of what helped us.

I’ve spent my life learning, experimenting, creating, and healing myself through deep commitment—not bandages or shortcuts. I’ve walked beside my own child through leukemia—a child who was vibrant, healthy, never even had a cavity. Raised in a home as toxin-free as I knew to create. Why did he get sick? Why do some people suffer despite all their efforts? We may never know. The world is full of invisible battles—some we inherit, some we meet unexpectedly. And in between, we must still advocate for ourselves with heart and integrity.

I’ve seen our elders age in two different ways. Some stretch their arms in Pilates and laughter. Others sit in pain, immobilized by years of neglect—not always by choice, but often by habit. It isn’t always about what we ate or did. Even the cleanest foods from fifty years ago are now filled with artificial ingredients. The purity of the past is rare today. And longevity, now, feels like a quest to navigate invisible pollutants—emotional, physical, and environmental.

There is no single answer. No universal path. There is only your path—your way of thriving, your way of healing. And it’s meant to evolve.

We live in a time of information overload. AI, social media, quick tips, endless cures. Every day, someone new says, “This is it! This is the way!” But real wellness doesn’t come from a single scroll or a trending protocol. It comes from slowing down enough to know what your body, your heart, your soul is asking for.

Sometimes, it’s frustrating to watch adventures slow down because people you love can’t—or won’t—walk the same path. It’s not my decision. But still, it affects me. Because when you love people deeply, their limitations do touch your own.

And yet—I still have the ability and the right to grow. To move. To adventure. To thrive. The word no becomes as sacred as the right foods. Boundaries begin to feel like nutrients too.

How much of yourself do you give away, and how much do you honor? That, too, is as personal as your wellness practice. This is a time of deep growth. A time to ask:

How will I honor myself… while still honoring those I love who choose differently?

How can I walk in balance—not from judgment, but with wisdom born from resistance, grace, and truth?

How can I offer presence—not to fix, but to remind someone of their own power to choose again?

The Gift of Living Well

The path is walked

not out of fear,

but out of love—

for the moments yet to come,

and the ones that shaped the way.

Choices echo through time.

Laughter lingers longer

in bodies that are honored.

Presence deepens

when the vessel is well.

This is not about perfection,

but awareness—

of what lifts,

what lingers,

what truly lasts.

Even when others pause,

resist,

or travel a different trail,

respect can hold space

for every pace,

every rhythm.

Wellness is not a race

or a rigid rule—

it is the quiet joy

of rising each day

and choosing again.

To nourish.

To breathe.

To notice the beauty

in simple rituals—

morning light,

genuine connection,

the soft art of enough.

There is wisdom in planting trees

whose shade we may never sit beneath.

In sharing moments that outlast us—

stories, smiles, small gestures—

passed down like heirlooms,

etched into generations.

Slowing down is not delay,

but devotion—

a way of making room

for what speed may trample.

For in rushing past

what asks to be felt,

the lesson may loop back

to be lived again.

The life that is tended

grows differently

than the one that is chased.

And the more care takes root,

the more joy can rise—

not to fix the world,

but to greet it

with open hands

and a whole heart.

The Space Between Our Timing

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Some things don’t arrive when we call for them.
Answers. Apologies. Understanding.
Sometimes, even love itself can feel like it’s running on a different clock.

And when you’re the one waiting, it can ache.
When you’re the one needing, it can stir a deeper awareness—
a noticing of how timing shapes everything.
And when you’re the one who can’t respond yet,
it can bring a quiet tension you don’t yet know how to name.

We don’t all meet life at the same tempo.
Some of us move fast—urgent to solve, to connect, to resolve.
Others need time, silence, space to feel their way forward.

But what happens in the pause between one person’s need and the other’s delay?

A whisper sneaks in:
“They don’t care.”
“They’re avoiding me.”
“This always happens.”
Something quiet begins to sharpen beneath the surface—
not rage, not cruelty—just the subtle weight of unmet timing.
An edge forms. And it cuts without anyone meaning to.

This obstacle can teach.
And it can take away.
It can open us to compassion
or close us in resentment.

The question becomes:
How do we meet each other with honor
when we’re out of rhythm?
How do we stay kind when we’re tired of holding the silence?
How do we not make their timing mean something about our worth?

Not every pause is punishment.
Not every delay is disregard.
But the stories we’ve lived may whisper otherwise.

It’s not just a language barrier—it’s a life barrier.
Different nervous systems.
Different stories.
Different shapes of presence and processing.

But if we can pause—not to press, not to fix,
but to see the other in their timing—
maybe we create a space where no one is wrong.

Maybe we say:
“I’m feeling the weight of waiting. I just need you to know.”
Or:
“I don’t have the words yet, but your heart matters to me.”

And just like that, we step out of the battle,
and into the bridge.

A Rhythm We Haven’t Learned Yet

Sometimes,
I wait for you
like the moon waits for the tide—
knowing it will come,
but not knowing when.

Sometimes,
you need space
like a mountain needs mist—
not to disappear,
but to breathe.

We move like dancers
to different songs,
feet aching
when we try to lead each other
through rhythms we haven’t learned yet.

But what if this is the music?

What if the space between us
isn’t a problem to solve,
but a sacred silence
where trust
and truth
begin to rise?

So I’ll stay present—
not in pause,
but in practice.
Not waiting to live,
but living in love
while the dance finds its shape.

Whether we meet in step
or drift apart like waves—
I am still whole
and still here.
Breathing. Becoming.
With or without the answer.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

What have you learned about your own rhythm—and how do you honor it while loving someone whose pace is different from yours?

The Antidote Is Within

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

There’s a kind of expansion that doesn’t look like more doing, more chasing, or more becoming.

It looks like shedding.

Softening.

Listening to what’s already been whispering inside for years.

People ask all the time—

What do you take?

What do you eat?

What do you think about this herb or that cleanse?

But the deeper truth is this:

The best health advice I can ever offer

Is to turn down the noise

And ask yourself…

How do you feel?

Are you rested or are you rushing on borrowed energy?

Do you move your body because it brings you life,

Or because you’re trying to fix what was never broken?

Do you fall into sleep like a prayer

or collapse into it like a last resort?

How much of your day is spent

in silence,

in breath,

in the untangling of thought from truth?

Do you scrub your skin like punishment

or like ceremony—

exfoliating the layers not just of yesterday’s dust,

but of the weight you’ve carried too long?

We hold the antidote inside.

Not in a bottle,

Not in someone else’s method or miracle,

But in our ability to return

to presence,

to rhythm,

to the quiet knowing we’ve always had.

There’s a lot out there telling us how to feel better,

how to do more,

how to chase a version of beauty that was never our own.

But what if we’re not meant to do more?

What if we’re meant to realign where we give our effort—

To stop over-performing in some areas

and under-nourishing others?

What if your wholeness doesn’t need to be earned,

only remembered?

We are not trends.

We are not opinions.

We are not before-and-after stories.

We are stories still being told,

and no one else gets to hold the pen.

Expansion is personal.

It begins with small choices that honor what’s real:

a breath,

a stretch,

a kind word to the mirror,

a walk without your phone,

a plate of vibrant food grown in soil, not manufactured in labs.

Play your instrument.

Take the trip.

Paint what you see in your dreams.

But do it because something inside you calls you forward—

not because an algorithm says you should.

You don’t need to change who you are.

You just need to come back to yourself.

And from there,

everything expands.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-

The Waters We Come From

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Time didn’t take me, it grew me.”

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Time moves like water—fluid, steady, and often unnoticed until we stop to feel its depth.

One day, you’re raising four children under one roof. The next, you’re watching them raise their own—each carving their unique path through the landscape of life. Some close, some far, some seen only in spirit. You could never have imagined it all unfolding this way. At their age, the future felt like a myth. Now, I live it daily. Not by reaching for what’s ahead, but by anchoring myself fully in today.

As I sit quietly with a fresh breeze brushing across the lake, I’m reminded how water has always spoken to me. It’s been a teacher. A comforter. A mirror. From floods in childhood to moonlit swims and the scent of salt and minerals clinging to my skin—it all remains, floating in memory.

Each body of water holds a story. Each ripple, a reflection of growth, grief, grace.

Sitting atop a mountain, a lake looks small. But in it, it feels endless. Life is like that. From above, a season looks brief. From within, it can feel infinite.

I think of the nourishment the Earth offers us—the way the water heals, the soil grounds, the sun energizes, and the breeze renews. The wisdom of nature is a retreat for the soul, and a reminder that healing is not always something we do, but something we allow.

Where the Waters Teach

I am the parent,

of the parents,

once the child,

now the still shore.

Where water once rushed

through muddy childhood floods,

now it moves through

quiet lines on my face—

each one etched with memory.

Some children are near,

some carried by the wind,

and one

rides the current between realms.

I don’t reach forward anymore.

I dwell.

In birdsong.

In sunlight through cedar.

In the mineral kiss of the lake.

Time didn’t take me,

it grew me.

And here I float,

held by waters

that knew me before I knew myself.

The Waters We Come From

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Time didn’t take me, it grew me.”

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Time moves like water—fluid, steady, and often unnoticed until we stop to feel its depth.

One day, you’re raising four children under one roof. The next, you’re watching them raise their own—each carving their unique path through the landscape of life. Some close, some far, some seen only in spirit. You could never have imagined it all unfolding this way. At their age, the future felt like a myth. Now, I live it daily. Not by reaching for what’s ahead, but by anchoring myself fully in today.

As I sit quietly with a fresh breeze brushing across the lake, I’m reminded how water has always spoken to me. It’s been a teacher. A comforter. A mirror. From floods in childhood to moonlit swims and the scent of salt and minerals clinging to my skin—it all remains, floating in memory.

Each body of water holds a story. Each ripple, a reflection of growth, grief, grace.

Sitting atop a mountain, a lake looks small. But in it, it feels endless. Life is like that. From above, a season looks brief. From within, it can feel infinite.

I think of the nourishment the Earth offers us—the way the water heals, the soil grounds, the sun energizes, and the breeze renews. The wisdom of nature is a retreat for the soul, and a reminder that healing is not always something we do, but something we allow.

Where the Waters Teach

I am the parent,

of the parents,

once the child,

now the still shore.

Where water once rushed

through muddy childhood floods,

now it moves through

quiet lines on my face—

each one etched with memory.

Some children are near,

some carried by the wind,

and one

rides the current between realms.

I don’t reach forward anymore.

I dwell.

In birdsong.

In sunlight through cedar.

In the mineral kiss of the lake.

Time didn’t take me,

it grew me.

And here I float,

held by waters

that knew me before I knew myself.

What If We Had No Mirrors? A Reflection on Aging, Beauty, and Living Naturally

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Yesterday, I saw myself in a way I hadn’t before. It was a sunny afternoon, and I was with my daughter—nearly 40 now, though I could still feel myself walking in her age. We were at a sprawling plant nursery, checking out with our treasures of green, when I looked up and caught a glimpse in a mirror near the counter.

There I was—me. But not the me I feel inside. Instead, a version touched by time, by sun, by the softness that aging brings. I stood there for a moment, surprised. Not saddened. Not shamed. Just… aware.

What If We Had No Mirrors?

It hit me: I’m almost 60. But I don’t believe in “aging” in the way society speaks of it. I believe in evolving. In learning. In living closer to the earth. I don’t wear makeup—not because I’m against it, but because I love the way nature feels on my skin. I love wind-swept hair, the kiss of sunshine, and the medicine of plants.

What would life be like if we had no mirrors?

If our reflection only came from rippling water, or from the way someone’s eyes lit up when we smiled? If we were reflected only by the kindness we gave, the presence we offered, and the energy we carried?

Would we worry so much about wrinkles or wild strands of hair? Would we still feel the need to cover, conceal, or enhance? Or would we simply be—unfiltered, untamed, and entirely enough?

Aging as Evolution, Not Decline

That moment reminded me: I want my reflection to be a thank you, not a judgment.

A recognition of how far I’ve come, of how deeply I’ve felt, and of how naturally I choose to live.

Mirrorless

Let the water be my mirror

Let the wind paint lines of grace

Let the sun write stories on my skin

And time slow down its pace

Let reflection come in ripples

Not in glass with harsh demands

Let me be revealed by presence

And not by culture’s hands

I’ll wear the earth with reverence

Let my wildness show through

For beauty is in living

And in living, I am true.

~ Kerri Elizabeth ~

Nature’s Wisdom: Finding Strength in Storms

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth
A view of a tall tree with a trunk in focus, showcasing bright green and yellow leaves at the top, set against a clear sky.

Growth takes a lifetime of strength through life’s storms, don’t miss a drop of rain or a ray of sunshine.

~Kerri Elizabeth~

Whisper to me your journey to the sky
Speak slowly so I can write them all
Share with me every rain drop you’ve felt
Every shiver in life’s storms that brings strength
As you stand protecting me

Strength through life’s storms creates resilience and endurance.
Share with me every ring you earned at your core
As you share, I’m listening
To the winds shuffling your leaves
The crackling among your branches
The dew among the grass sharing precious reflections
Nature will inspire you with growth
Where God so creatively painted all the answers

After enduring the challenges, you will feel sunshine often after gaining strength through life’s storms.

If you like this one, my hope is you will also like the one posted below:

There is where you’ll be

If you love music , this is a great song: