Nature never asks an oak to produce leaves in the middle of winter. A fox conserves energy when food is scarce. Seeds remain dormant until conditions allow growth. Winter is never a failed spring. None of these is a failure: they are expressions of wisdom. Perhaps human beings have forgotten that wisdom. Perhaps we confuse relentless effort with courage. Perhaps real courage is knowing when to reduce sail.

I read under trees whose names I don’t know. I write in cafés whose menus I don’t understand but whose coffee is exactly what I need. I keep moving, like the tide; like Artemis, always on the edge of the wild.

Comfortable, with whispers brought by the winds and flapping of wings and sails; embraced by water; grounded by soil and warmth by fire.

I want to talk to the waters, to share secrets with trees, to listen to the whispers of the wind, and to bathe in the wisdom of rain.

I need rain against the window to sleep, water on my skin to feel loved, feet in the sea to sense freedom.