entry sixty-five

 Monday, June 30, 2025

School is out, and the house is quiet. Not the kind of quiet I used to crave at the end of a long day—the fleeting, fragile hush before the next obligation—but something deeper. Heavier. Like the quiet that settles after a storm you didn’t realize had been raging for months. The space feels unfamiliar. Spacious, even. I don't quite trust it yet.

My mother came over for lunch today. We didn’t talk about school. We didn’t have to. There was comfort in the ordinary, in the way her presence didn’t demand anything from me. After a year that hollowed me out, it felt like a small act of repair—to sit across from someone who sees me not as a teacher, or someone burned out, but simply as her daughter. In her quiet company, I was reminded that even in all the unraveling, softness still exists—tender, unspoken, and waiting to be noticed. It felt like being gently reminded that there’s a version of me outside the classroom. One who isn’t always rushing, reacting, managing.

After lunch, my mother offered some thoughts on the neurographic art piece I’d been working on. She liked the colors but felt it was missing something. Together, we decided to add a hummingbird and a girl walking in the rain. Later, after she left, I returned to the kitchen table where the artwork sat, edges slightly curled. I hadn’t planned to revisit it today, but the softer, slower light drew me in. Looking closely, I noticed something new: the colors—yellow, orange, green, and blue—flowed into each other like breath, softened by my absence. The lines, once chaotic, now felt tender, curved, alive. In that moment, something in me finally exhaled.

The hummingbird was hovering low over a puddle—not a flower like in traditional imagery. The wasn’t something beautiful on the surface - just a quiet pool of leftover rain. Still, the bird drank. That detail—small, specific, unintentional—caught me. Maybe that’s what I’ve missed all year. The tiny offerings. The puddles I was too busy to notice. The ways my body and spirit were asking to be nourished, even as I kept pushing through. Maybe healing doesn’t look like a clean break or a return to who I was. Maybe it’s this: recognizing there is still sweetness to be found in what remains. Those small wins!

Then, the girl with the umbrella, walking through the rain. She isn’t rushing. Her boots splash through the water with ease. She doesn’t seem afraid of being wet, or watched, or weary. She just moves. Am I her? I don’t know. Some days, I feel more like the puddle—stagnant and overlooked. Other days, like the rain itself—relentless and just too much. Today, I felt something in me soften. Something slow and unsteady that didn’t ask me to define it, just to sit with it. Maybe that’s what healing is: not fixing, but witnessing.

Burnout is still with me. It lingers in my body, in my sleep, in the way I brace myself even in silence. But sitting at this table, with color and curve and memory, I remembered that I am still here. That the part of me who notices—the part who creates, who pauses, who feels—is still intact. Maybe I am the girl. Maybe I am the hummingbird. Maybe I am simply learning to stay. Maybe, for now, that’s enough.

The Girl and the Hummingbird

mixed media on paper

me: I didn’t plan to return to you today, but here I am. You seem different—quieter somehow and more patient.

The Girl and the Hummingbird: I’ve been here, waiting in the stillness you needed. The colors softened while you stepped away, learning to hold space for your breath.

me: I was caught in so much noise—inside and out. Before, your lines felt tangled, restless. Now, they seem gentle, almost caring.

The Girl and the Hummingbird: That restlessness was part of your journey. Healing often begins in quiet moments, when we finally allow softness to settle in.

me: The hummingbird you carry—why is it drinking from a puddle, not a flower?

The Girl and the Hummingbird: Sometimes nourishment comes from unexpected places—small moments overlooked and simple gifts left behind. You have been thirsty for too long.

me: What about the girl with the umbrella walking through rain—does she know where she’s going? Or is she just learning to move despite not knowing?

The Girl and the Hummingbird: She is learning that moving forward doesn’t require certainty or dryness. Sometimes, presence in the moment is the only way through.

me: I feel like both the puddle and the rain—still and overwhelming, fragile and relentless. How do I make peace with that?

The Girl and the Hummingbird: You don’t have to choose. Both can exist within you. Healing is not about fixing what’s broken but embracing all parts with gentle awareness.

me: It’s strange, this space between storm and calm. Maybe it’s a space I need—to simply be, to notice, to breathe.

The Girl and the Hummingbird: Yes. I hold this space with you—in every curve and color. There is power in simply staying, in patient presence.

Between Tension and Calm

The silence that settles—
not just a pause before the next thing,
but a soft, deep breath,
like a hug wrapping around the heart,
slowly letting go.

There’s a quiet kindness here,
woven into simple moments—
a gentle touch that soothes,
a look that says, “I see you,”
a space where just being is enough.

Edges soften, colors blend,
not sharp or hurried,
but tender and open,
where broken pieces find rest
and begin to bloom again.

A small creature lingers—
not chasing bright lights,
but finding warmth in hidden places,
drawing quiet strength
from the little things left behind.

And someone moves—
feet steady on gentle paths,
not rushing or hiding,
just flowing with the moment,
learning that being carried
feels like home.

Here, in gentle unfolding,
healing is not fixing,
but a soft embrace,
a patient presence,
a sweet, steady staying.

Maybe this is enough—
to notice, to hold, to breathe,
between tension and calm,
finding a tender way home.