“Falling is not failure, it is a trust in the land.”
Leaves drift through open air,
no fear in letting go,
they trust the wind to guide them
to places they don’t know.
And maybe every ending
is simply a returning,
to rest within the change,
and shine in the revelation.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
By tomorrow, the wind will quiet, and something long awaited will begin to form.
“What lies beneath is part of the journey, it teaches us how we trust the unseen.”
Leaves fall across the pathway,
a softness to the cover,
they whisper with each footstep,
you’ve carried this so long.
The cover is not hiding wonder,
its revealing more is there, right under.
What is there is soon uncovered,
as the winds reminisce with the seasons of thunder.
-Kerri-Elizabeth-
Tomorrow, the week will close, and October’s cover will turn into October’s unveiling.
Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.
Not people.
Not moments.
Not choices.
Not even the silence that fills the space between them.
We live in a world where snap judgments happen faster than truth can unfold.
Where words once spoken by others can stain the image of someone they never truly knew.
Where assumptions dress themselves in certainty and walk confidently into misunderstandings.
But sometimes,
we’re asked to stand still,
to let the story reveal itself in its own timing,
to trust the unfolding even when our hearts ache for clarity.
There are moments when we want to speak, to correct the narrative,
but growth often asks us to stay quiet,
to let time become the translator between perception and truth.
We may be seen wrongly.
Misunderstood by those who weren’t present for the full picture.
Held accountable for choices not ours.
But even in the shadows of misjudgment,
our light still holds.
Our integrity doesn’t dim just because someone else refuses to see it.
Sometimes, we must live as witnesses
to our own resilience
doing our work,
living our lives,
trusting that what’s real doesn’t need convincing.
Because truth lives longer than rumor.
It breathes in the quiet,
and it rises, eventually, like the sun through fog.
Let people think what they will.
Let the unfolding take its time.
You are not here to rush understanding.
You are here to keep becoming.
~Kerri-Elizabeth~
As this week folds into stillness, the edge of tomorrow stirs with quiet anticipation. What has been hidden asks to be trusted, what has been blurred begins to clear. Week three rises like a shadowed path ahead, inviting the heart to lead where the eyes cannot yet follow.
“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…
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.
SONSHINE FOR YOU 