More than one growing together with its own definition, not to be the other, but instead to highlight both dark and light to show up in the middle as the sunrise and sunset, that is where beauty shines.

We trust so many things without ever touching them.
Without holding them up to the light,
without asking how they feel in our own body,
our own heart,
our own knowing.

We trust because it’s easier, faster —
because we’re tired.
We’ve been taught to trust what’s already packaged and repeated.
To scroll, absorb, accept.

But not everything you’re given is meant to be yours.
And not every truth belongs on your skin.

Years ago, a man watched water in a moonlit stream.
Not through a microscope,
but through the lens of stillness,
and the wild reverence of someone who listened to nature.

Viktor Schauberger.
A name many will never hear.

He followed the movement of water like it was alive —
and it is.

“They call me deranged… But if I am right and science is wrong… may God help mankind.”

He wasn’t just speaking of water.
He was warning us.
That intuition, when silenced, becomes prophecy unheeded.
That nature, when ignored, will find other ways to speak.

We’ve forgotten the language of touch, of sense,
of sitting still long enough to let our own nervous system
guide us back to center.

We fear the plants we were told not to touch.
Even now, after they’ve shown their healing.
We wait for permission to use what was already gifted
by the earth, by God, by the breath that first woke us.

We trust what’s loud,
and overlook what’s ancient.

And it’s no wonder.

We are not living in stillness.
We are surviving in stimulation.

There’s a flood of voices,
each one offering the cure, the fix, the next best way.
One day you’re saved.
The next day you’re wrong.
Everything changes by the algorithm’s pulse.

How do we live inside that noise
and still hear what’s true?

The answer doesn’t come from more knowing.
It comes from returning.
To yourself.

Not the version that’s always learning, always pleasing, always pushing —
but the version that still sits under trees and breathes in silence.
That part of you who remembers.
Who already knows.

You can’t buy that knowing.
You can’t find it in someone else’s steps.
It only lives where you do.

Sit still, even if it’s uncomfortable.
Turn off the sounds.
Step into the trees.
Let nature speak without interruption.

You may feel fear at first —
the fear of your own thoughts,
your own emptiness.

But that emptiness isn’t hollow.
It’s sacred.
It’s where the voice of your Creator still hums.
Not loudly. Not demandingly.
Just… waiting.

We all carry spaces we haven’t touched yet.
Places inside we’ve filled with someone else’s story.
Beliefs that don’t fit.
Triggers that haven’t been soothed.
Emotions we never learned how to sit with.

But if we want to heal —
if we want to truly know —
we have to stop outsourcing ourselves.

You can’t be loved in your fullness
if you don’t first live there.

 On Love, Wholeness, and Belonging

We barely know how to be in relationship anymore —
not because we don’t want love,
but because love has been layered with fear.

We’re taught that to keep someone close, we must please them.
That love means sacrifice of self,
and that rejection is the cost of being honest.

We start to doubt ourselves.
To assume others must think what we think.
To believe that two becoming one
means we lose something essential in order to belong.

But true belonging doesn’t come from ownership.
It isn’t found in control or in bending to stay wanted.

One and one do not become one.
One and one remain two whole beings —
choosing to walk together,
flowing like river and earth,
like tree and fruit,
each shaped by the other
but never demanded to be less than what it is.

Yes, we intertwine.
Yes, we influence.
But the gift of love is growth,
not reduction.

Two become more when they remain whole.

 Where It All Flows Together

We are made of contrast.
We are not just joy or just pain.
We are the weaving of both —
the ache and the awe living side by side.

Love isn’t just soft.
Sometimes it’s sharp.
It shows us where we’ve gone missing inside ourselves
and invites us to return.

Pain isn’t punishment.
It’s often the invitation.
A crack that lets the new voice echo through —
the one we’d silenced for far too long.

There is light.
And there is shadow.
Both belong.
Both speak truth.

Grief isn’t the opposite of healing.
It is healing,
when we let it move through us
instead of freeze within us.

And joy — real joy —
isn’t shallow.
It’s made deeper by all the places we’ve been
where joy was far from reach.
It’s not the skipping over.
It’s the rising after sinking.

We rush so quickly —
through minutes, through meaning —
as if depth will wait for us.
But truth lives in the slow.
In the pause.
In the breath that asks,
“Do you feel this?”

To be whole,
we must let it all flow together.
Not filtered.
Not compartmentalized.
But lived.

Awareness is the alchemy.
It’s not that we must choose light or dark,
joy or sorrow, love or sadness
It’s that we become the space that allows them to coexist
without shame.
That is where truth resonates —
in the fullness of the human experience
embraced without fear.

 Can you hear that? Dont trust me, instead listen for yourself.

The voice that created you —
is still there.
Still speaking.
Not through screens,
but through wind.
Through intuition.
Through breath.

Can you hear it?

-Kerri-Elizabeth-