“At the edge of shadows, light waits to be seen, reminding us that endings are only thresholds to another beginning.”
Change doesn’t always come crashing.
Sometimes it lingers at the edges,
the way dusk slowly unravels daylight,
barely noticed until the sky is no longer blue.
There is a silence that weighs heavier than words.
It doesn’t scream, doesn’t accuse
it simply waits,
like a shadow just out of reach,
asking you to notice what has already shifted.
You walk through the day as if nothing has changed,
yet the air tastes different,
like rain just before it falls.
The trees seem to lean in,
the wind carries whispers you can’t quite hold.
Trust is not stolen in a single act,
it erodes,
grain by grain,
like cliffs giving way to the sea.
And by the time you notice the hollow beneath your feet,
the land is already gone.
You learn to sit with the silence,
to watch without rushing,
to let stillness teach you what words never will.
Because even in the shadows,
love can take new form
not the love that clings,
but the kind that releases into the wind,
trusting it will reach where it needs to go.
And somewhere in that silence, a storm is still gathering…
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
And still, the silence grows heavier, pressing against the walls of certainty. What happens when it finally breaks? Tomorrow, the storm begins to scatter its disguise.
Not all rebuilding begins with hammers ,some begins with the choice to stand still and listen.
There is a silence that settles after the last echoes fade, not the hush of peace, but the stillness of a place deciding what it will become.
The rebuilding does not announce itself.
It starts in small, almost invisible ways: a stone set back in place without thinking, a path cleared because your feet naturally follow it, a breath drawn without the weight you’ve been carrying for months.
No one stands in a circle to mark the moment. There are no blueprints, no fanfare, no clear signal that now is the time to begin again. The work starts inside , in the soft decision to believe in the ground beneath you, even if it’s still damp from the storm.
And perhaps the most surprising thing is this: sometimes the first piece you set in place is not for shelter at all. It’s for beauty, a reminder that what is worth living for has survived, even here, even now.
Rebuilding is not about erasing what happened. The lines are still there, the cracks still visible, the ground still bearing the shape of loss. But within those shapes, there is space for new roots to find their way down.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
This series moves through the storm’s rise, its breaking, and the quiet work that follows. What comes next will not be the same as what was lost but it may hold a strength that only comes from having been rebuilt.
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.
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.
“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.
SONSHINE FOR YOU 