The Map the Tide Left Behind

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Every wave redraws the shoreline, leaving quiet instructions in its wake.

When the water finally pulled back, it did not return the world as it was. The shore had shifted ,lines carved where none had been before, sand pressed into patterns that would not wash away with the next tide.

It’s easy to think of waves as destroyers, but they are also cartographers. They leave maps in the debris, in the placement of stones, in the curve of driftwood that marks the farthest reach of the flood.

If you stand still long enough, you begin to read it ,the way the water circled here, the way it slammed straight through there, the places it spared without reason. The patterns are not for beauty; they are for understanding.

There is no rushing this kind of knowledge.

You trace the edges of what has changed, your feet sinking into new ground that has already decided what it will hold and what it will never keep again.

And in those moments, you see it clearly: the map is not for finding your way back. It is for showing you the way forward, through a landscape you would never have recognized before the tide touched it.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

This series follows the slow work of storms and tides, charting the spaces they leave behind. Tomorrow, the current turns toward what it means to rebuild in the quiet , not as it was before, but as it can be now.

The Weight of Water

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Even the fiercest wave can carry you home if you learn to trust its pull.

Grief comes in waves

not gentle tides,

but deep-water surges

that pull at the roots.

You can stand against it,

or let it take you

both are exhausting,

both leave you changed.

Grief is what we view,

based on what we can’t see anymore.

A tidal wave of loss.

There is also the grief you can see,

touching a different depth,

the kind that

requires another enduring perspective.

One that is received , with

or without permission.

Like waves laying upon a quiet beach,

the weight of water

is the weight of memory,

pressing against the chest

until every breath

is a choice.

When it recedes,

you find the shore altered

lines drawn where none were before,

stones rearranged,

driftwood marking where the tide reached last.

You learn to read those signs,

to know how far the waves can come

before they break you again.

And maybe,

just maybe,

you begin to trust

that even in the pull,

something is carrying you home.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

Every wave changes the shoreline and every change leaves a map. This series moves with the water and the wind, through the quiet ache and the slow return. The next current rises tomorrow, and its direction is still unknown.

The Second Wall

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Sometimes the hardest part of the storm is realizing the calm was never the end.

The calm came like an unearned mercy ,the kind that makes you believe the worst is behind you. The air felt lighter, almost sweet. For a moment, you let yourself imagine the storm had passed, that the tearing down was finished.

But calm can be a trickster.

It can be the still breath before the second wall arrives ,heavier, sharper, and carrying what the first did not take.

When it came, I felt it in the walls of my chest before I saw it in the sky. Words moved like wind through the spaces between people, lifting dust where nothing had been swept clean. The force was not in thunder, but in the way it pressed against the heart, testing where the cracks had deepened.

After, the ground was littered with what the storm had made visible…..broken beams of trust, shattered fragments of understanding, pieces of history scattered and unclaimed. I walked through it all barefoot for days, writing and feeling the sharp edges, deciding which wounds I was willing to tend to, and which would be left to weather on their own, for now anyways.

There is a strange kind of clarity in the second wall, maybe I didn’t see more before it, like I did this one. The first takes what it can reach. The second shows you what’s truly anchored and what only looked strong until the wind shifted.

And once you know the difference, you cannot unknow it.

The work is more of becoming, again, unraveling years already healed and placed away as wisdom show up to shake you and see how strong your foundation, really is.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

This is one step in a series that moves through storms both seen and unseen, each one reshaping the landscape in ways that cannot be undone. The next tide is already building, and what it leaves or takes will tell the next part of the story.

After the Eye

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

The calm at the center is never the end, only the breath before the breaking.

The eye of the storm

is a dangerous kindness

a pause that lets you believe

the worst has passed.

But brisk breezes always comes,

and when it does,

you learn the shape of your own shelter,

the sound of your own voice

calling yourself home.

After it breaks,

you walk barefoot through the wreckage,

feeling for the edges of what’s still whole.

Not everything scattered

was worth keeping.

Not everything left standing

is meant to stay.

Sometimes survival

is not about rebuilding

it’s about learning

how to breathe

in the spaces

the wind has cleared.

~Kerri-Elizabeth-

The storms we survive are not just weather they are mirrors, showing us what cannot be moved, and what we can no longer carry. This series walks those paths, one day at a time, through the shifting light after the eye has passed. The next part waits just beyond the next gust.

Between the Currents: Patience is acquired

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Some stand on the shore, torn between the pull of two tides, afraid to lose sight of either horizon.

There are places where the heart feels pulled in opposite directions , a delicate thread stretched between two shores, never sure which way the wind will blow.

Sometimes it is not the storm itself that wears you down, but the weight of holding both the anchor and the sail. One hand clings to the dock, the other reaches for open water, and you are left wondering which will give first.

To love people who stand on different sides is to live in a constant negotiation with yourself ,how to hold loyalty without losing truth, how to be faithful to more than one compass at a time. Those who live there often believe they are keeping the peace, yet they walk on a bridge that sways over a chasm neither side wishes to see.

But bridges creak under the strain. And when the wind shifts, the boards remind you that you cannot belong to both shores without feeling the splinters.

There are moments when you hope for a stand, not a battle, but a quiet, unwavering refusal to join what is wrong, even if it comes dressed in silk and lace. It is the unseen courage you long for, the voice that says, I see the harm in this, and I will not step into it.

When that voice is silent, you feel it in your bones. You watch the gatherings where absence has been engineered, the empty chairs where history once sat. You stand at the edge of the celebration and feel the chill of being placed in the shadows, while strangers are handed the front row.

It is a strange ache, to grieve what is still alive. To watch laughter carry a song that once belonged to your deepest mourning, and realize it is being danced upon without you.

And yet, even in that ache, you may still plant flowers along the invisible fence , sun-warm petals and soft-leafed roses , as both gift and boundary. A way of saying, I see you, I love you, and here is where the water meets the land. Even if the gesture is misunderstood, even if it is whispered against, you know the truth of your own hands and the soil they tended.

Somewhere inside, you know that the journey back to one another is not entirely yours to navigate. Sometimes you cannot swim against both tides. Sometimes you have to anchor to your own truth, and let the currents choose what washes back to shore.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

But tides never rest for long. Tomorrow, we enter “After the Eye” , where the stillness is a trick of light, and the storm, patient as a predator, waits just beyond the horizon.

Between the Currents

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Some stand on the shore, torn between the pull of two tides, afraid to lose sight of either horizon.

Between the Currents

The heart

can be moored to two shores at once

each tide whispering, stay,

each wind urging, go.

It is a quiet war,

standing where loyalties divide,

where the bridge beneath your feet

sways with every choice.

but of faces,

A hurricane passes through

not of weather,

words,

and silences.

It tears away the soft things,

flings petals into the dark,

strips truth bare

until it stands trembling in the open air.

When the winds settle,

you walk among what remains

the stones still rooted,

the flowers that refused to bow,

the empty chairs

where once there was warmth.

And you wonder

not how to rebuild,

but whether the house you knew

was ever truly standing.

Some storms

are not meant to be outrun.

They are meant to be sat with,

until the ache becomes a compass,

until the waves return

what was meant to remain.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

This is part of an unfolding journey through storms that test our footing and winds that strip us bare. Each piece in this series is a step through the wreckage, into the quiet after, where perspective begins to take root. Tomorrow, the tide shifts again and what it carries will not be what it left behind.

The Storm in Satin

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Some storms arrive without thunder , only the rustle of silk and the weight of unspoken things .”

Beneath the vows and music’s sway,

something slithered,

soft as lace against the grass.

Whispers curled like smoke

from mouths that had never tasted the truth,

passing from palm to palm

until the story grew legs

and ran in circles beneath the tent.

Eyes met with a knowing

that knew nothing at all.

Confidence stitched from secondhand threads,

woven by those

who never thought to ask

where the fabric came from.

Nature has always known this dance ,

coyotes cry into the dark,

summoning the pack without question,

rivers deliver branches

to strangers downstream,

the ocean shifts her voice

without leaving her shore.

And we, standing on the edge,

felt the tide beneath the satin.

I let it move.

I did not throw my stone to quicken the waves.

For I have learned

that reaction sinks faster than truth

and truth always swims.

It comes ashore in its own time,

dripping with the weight of what was hidden,

ready to dry in the sunlight.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

This piece is part of a new unfolding — a series where poetry becomes the lantern for a path lined with shadow and light. Over the coming months, fragments will surface, like shells along a tide, carrying both the ache and the healing of a story still writing itself. Some truths will arrive quietly, some will roar, and each will ask the reader to walk slowly, to see what is revealed when the water recedes.

The Wedding Next Door

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Not every wall is built of stone. Some are stitched in silence.”

Through the green veil of hedges,

laughter spills like champagne,

music drifts over water dressed in light,

and satin skirts sweep across the grass

as if the earth beneath them

has never trembled.

It looks like joy from a distance.

It always does.

But I have learned

that some celebrations are sewn

with hidden thread,

pulled tight by unseen hands.

There is a way shadows move through a crowd

quiet weaving,

like scales brushing against silk,

never noticed by the ones

who clap the loudest.

We stand in the space

between knowing and speaking,

on our side of the wall,

watching the choreography unfold

without a single step meant for us.

The air feels heavy

with unsaid things,

but the sun still lays its gold

across the water,

reminding me

there is always light

beyond the tangle of branches.

Some stories take years to write.

Some are already written and only need the light to find them.

This one has been threading itself through many summers, people and places.

And writing unravels pain

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

This post marks the beginning of a new series—a weaving of poetry, story, and healing that will slowly unfold in the months ahead. Each piece will carry both the rawness of truth and the light of perspective, inviting you to walk with me through shadows and sunrises, uncovering what has been hidden, holding space for what has been lost, and discovering the quiet strength that rises in the telling. This is the start of an unraveling, one thread at a time.

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~