“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.

“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.