For The Quiet Hours
Some words arrive only after midnight. They do not explain everything, but they stay beside me long enough to feel honest.
There are hours that do not ask to be productive. They ask only to be lived through gently. The room is small, the air is still, and every sound seems to come from very far away.
In those hours I understand prayer less as speech and more as presence. A way of remaining available to what aches without forcing it into argument. A way of sitting beside uncertainty without pretending it has already become wisdom.
Sometimes all I can offer is attention. Sometimes that is enough to keep the night from feeling empty.
Continue reading
More pieces that belong to the same slow conversation.
La Luce
I write here to hold a thought a little longer than usual, to let it breathe before it disappears into the noise of the day.
After The Train Window
A moving city can still leave behind one still image, and sometimes that image is enough to carry the whole day.