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Our wandering minds
With our hearts
Bloom right here
-安天美
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April's words dissolve. Green rocks scattered across our attention like false promises. The mind builds elaborate detours, each one reasonable, each one leading somewhere that isn't here. We chase what glitters instead of what grows. This isn't weakness. This is human architecture: the way we construct distance from the very things that feed us.
Months accumulate like unopened letters. Each day we tell ourselves tomorrow will be different, tomorrow we'll remember who we said we'd be. But tomorrow arrives wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and we find ourselves still standing at the edge of our own forgotten promises, wondering how we got so far from home.
The year spends itself while we sleep. Half-gone before we notice. Time moves like water through cupped hands, and we keep thinking we can hold it still long enough to make different choices. But time doesn't wait for our readiness. It simply passes, indifferent to our intentions.
Something beats beneath the noise. Constant. Unrelenting. The heart carries its own calendar, marking time not in months but in moments of recognition. It knows what the mind pretends to forget: that writing nourishes more than it exhausts. That creating energises rather than depletes. That the very thing we avoid is often the thing we most need.
This calling doesn't negotiate with our excuses or make appointments with our convenience. It simply is. Present in Tuesday afternoon light, present in the weight of unopened notebooks, present in the gap between who we are and who we promised ourselves we'd become. The heart speaks the language of necessity when it's been ignored too long.
Resilience reveals itself: not the absence of drift but the muscle memory of return. Birds don't apologise for migrating. They simply know when it's time to come home. We are learning this same navigation, this same trust in internal compass over external circumstance.
Here means now. Not when conditions improve or inspiration strikes or guilt transforms into motivation. Here means this chair, this moment, this breath before your first word. We stop waiting for perfect circumstances and start recognising that beginning again makes any circumstance workable.
The page waits with infinite patience. It doesn't judge the months of absence or demand explanation for the silence. It simply offers itself as ground solid enough to support whatever wants to grow. This is grace: the willingness of our tools to meet us wherever we are, however long we've been away.
Blooming doesn't consult calendars. Spring arrives whenever we remember how to tend the garden of our deepest work. The year may be half-spent, but creativity operates outside time's jurisdiction. One Tuesday afternoon choice to honour what truly feeds us can transform everything that came before into preparation rather than procrastination.
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Practical Return
Start ridiculously small: open the document, write one terrible sentence, close it again. Set a timer for ten minutes and commit only to those ten minutes, not to producing anything good. The goal isn't to create masterpieces but to rebuild the neural pathway between intention and action until showing up becomes automatic again. Do the work. Make your dreams come true.
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<aside> <img src="/icons/backward_blue.svg" alt="/icons/backward_blue.svg" width="40px" /> Small Actions Matter
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<aside> <img src="/icons/forward_blue.svg" alt="/icons/forward_blue.svg" width="40px" /> Careful Expansion
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