transformation

The House on the Cliff

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“Even here where the earth gives way, the heart learns to root deeper.”

It was built on what looked like stone.

Strong, unmoving, safe.

But stone can be deceiving.

Over time, it begins to whisper back to the sea,

grain by grain,

returning to what it came from.

From a distance, the house still shines.

The windows reflect the light,

the roof holds steady against the rain.

echoes of laughter,

But if you dare stand close,

you feel the tremor beneath your feet.

The earth is shifting,

the cliff surrendering its shape.

Inside those walls are memories,

arguments sharp as broken glass,

footsteps that once pressed into the floorboards

and then walked away.

The house holds them still,

but the ground does not promise to.

And yet,

love remains.

Not the kind that anchors the walls in place,

but the kind that drifts like mist,

carried by wind and tide.

Love that no longer clings to presence,

but transforms into distance,

into respect,

into silence that is still holy.

The house leans closer each day,

its weight too much for the cliff to hold.

And in the waiting,

You do not know the hour of its fall,

only that it is coming.

you learn to stand in stillness,

to send love out like a breath into the ethers,

trusting it will reach

even those who no longer sit beside you.

Because sometimes love is not received,

not returned,

not even recognized.

Sometimes love is simply released,

unbound by time,

unshaken by space,

a light traveling where it is most needed.

And so you stand,

watching the cliff crumble,

hearing the hush before the collapse.

Not afraid.

Not clinging.

Only witnessing.

Only loving.

Next week, the storm gathers again…

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The fall has not yet come, but the silence before it is deafening. Next week, the storm gathers again…

 Echoes of Rejection

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

 

“Love never fails; it simply reshapes itself and makes room to breathe. Rejection may look the same, but its essence is different.”

Rejection is not always loud.

Sometimes it comes as absence

a chair left empty,

a phone that does not ring,

a silence that stretches longer than the horizon.

At first, it feels like a mistake.

Surely the echo will fade,

surely the door will open again.

But silence can harden,

it can become a wall,

and soon you realize you are standing

on the outside looking in.

Rejection leaves a mark,

but it also leaves clarity.

It teaches you where love was conditional,

where belonging was borrowed,

where you tried to plant gardens

in soil that was never fertile.

And yet,

love itself is not gone.

It does not die with distance.

It reshapes,

becoming the wind that carries your prayers,

the river that flows unseen beneath the earth,

the light that reaches across time and space

to whisper:

“I am still here, even if we are apart.”

In this echo,

you learn that love does not need to be received

to remain true.

It can be given freely,

released like seeds into the wind,

trusting they will root where they must.

The ground is shifting again… and the house leans closer to the edge.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The echo does not fade. It sharpens, carrying the weight of what is slipping away. Tomorrow, the house leans closer to the edge, and the ground begins to give.

The Empty Chair

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Emptiness carry’s its own weight, that slowly releases when noticed and nurtured with love.

There is a chair that waits,

its wooden frame holding

the shape of absence.

It remembers the weight

that once pressed into its seat,

the laughter that circled above it,

the warmth that is no longer there.

An empty chair is more than furniture.

It is a witness.

It holds silence the way a vessel

holds water,

quietly, steadily,

until the silence overflows.

You find yourself staring at it,

wondering if absence

can ever be filled

or if it must simply

be carried.

And still,

the chair remains,

a quiet sentinel

for what once was,

and what might one day return.

Tomorrow, the echo speaks…

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The chair sits quietly, but it speaks of more than absence. Tomorrow, the echo will grow louder, carrying the sound of rejection through the walls.

The Waiting Amplifies

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Waiting is where stillness builds strength, meditation becomes a pillar and breathing is noticed and not taken for granted.

The waiting room is not a place,

it is a season.

A space where clocks seem broken,

where time moves at an almost still water pace

present, yet unmoving.

You sit. You breathe.

You listen to the hum of unseen decisions

being shuffled behind invisible doors.

Every paper shuffled feels like a wind in the trees,

rustling with answers

you are not yet meant to hear.

Waiting stretches you.

It teaches that surrender is not defeat,

but a kind of quiet strength.

A knowing that love can hold you steady

even when the outcome trembles.

Through the window,

you see clouds piling in the distance.

They are , layered,

behind them the sun keeps burning,

unmoved by delay.

And in the silence,

you remember:

the sun does not rush,

and yet it always arrives.

You whisper love into the air,

not asking it to return,

only asking it to travel,

to find who it needs to reach.

The waiting is heavy,

but the love is light enough to carry.

And not all doors open into light…

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

The silence is thick, the outcome unseen. Somewhere beyond the door, decisions stir. Tomorrow, absence itself will take its place at the table.

Shadows at the Edge

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

“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.

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Rebuilding Quietly

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

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 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.

Beneath the Veil

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

You may never be seen in the way you want to be seen, but in that is reflective peace that requires a steady love within.

A letter to the invisible woman in all of us

There is a woman they don’t see

Not because she’s hiding

but because she’s been asked to wear so many names

that her own has grown quiet

She became Mother

And somewhere in the becoming

the rest of her waited

patient

aching

evolving

She held babies in one arm

while holding her breath with the other

She learned to smile while unraveling

She fed everyone first

then forgot she was hungry

No one asked if she was still dreaming

No one asked what she was giving up

to become so dependable

so strong

But she remembers

She remembers when she used to cry without hiding it

when her body was still her own

and her time belonged to something other than survival

She remembers the girl she used to be

wild with wonder

unsure and unapologetic

hopeful in ways she didn’t yet know would cost her

And yet

the woman she is now

has grown from those very roots

She is soft where she once braced herself

fierce in ways she never expected

She no longer begs to be understood

she simply becomes

And that

finally

is enough

She has learned that hardship is not an interruption

it’s a teacher

That pain doesn’t disqualify her

it deepens her

She dances now

not perfectly

but with grace that wasn’t born from ease

but from endurance

She knows the difference

between protecting and controlling

between letting go and giving up

She knows how to hold a boundary

with an open heart

She knows how to forgive

without losing herself again

She no longer tries to prove her worth

through what she gives away

She’s learning how to belong

to herself

This is the woman beneath the veil

not invisible

but infinite

And if you ask her now

she will tell you

There is joy here

There is peace

There is room to rise

Reflection:

A quiet reflection for you, if you’re still reading…

If this touched something in you, let it.

Let it remind you of the wholeness you still are beneath the roles.

Let it call forward the part of you that has waited quietly for someone to notice her.

Maybe today is the day you write her a letter.

Maybe today is the day you remember:

you are not invisible,you are becoming.

~Kerri-Elizabeth~

Stay True

Posted on by Kerri Elizabeth

Stay soft
even when the world feels hard.
Stay true
even when no one sees you.

Let them forget—
you remember.
Let them gather—
you root.

You were never made to vanish.
You were made to rise
from the quiet.
To love from the ache.
To see clearly
without needing to be seen.

Let presence be your protest.
Let peace be your answer.
And let love, real love,
begin with how you hold yourself
when no one else does.

-Kerri-Elizabeth-