The Light Is in the Wood You Split

The afternoon stretches out, long and quiet, and your pocket buzzes with a ghost. A phantom vibration.

You reach for a phone that never rang, bracing for a consequence that hasn't arrived yet. The air feels thick with waiting, as if the other shoe is suspended mid-air, refusing to drop.

But the light does not live in the future you are fearing. It lives in the wood you are splitting right now.

Lift up the stone beneath your feet—the light is there, not in the noise of what might come. If you bring forth the truth of this present moment, it will save you.

If you keep burying yourself in a disaster that has not happened, it will destroy you. The consequence you dread is a shadow; the peace you need is already here, hidden in the ordinary.