Shaping Mountains

I used to think life had a finish line—somewhere I’d finally arrive, all wise and steady. Turns out, it’s a spiral, not a road. I keep circling the same lessons till they soften and let go. Even the pinecone’s been trying to teach me that much.

I’ve sat with the dying and felt the air change when a spirit starts to loosen its laces. My hands know before my head does. That’s not power—it’s presence. Spirit working through me, not me trying to play God.

When chaos hits, I don’t fight it. I breathe deep. I listen. Folks storm and scramble, and I just… still. I ask myself, If I died tomorrow, would this matter? Most times the answer is no. That breath right after? That’s where peace lives.

Sometimes I step outside and light a cigarette just for the excuse to be alone. Half the time it burns itself out between my fingers. It ain’t about the smoke—it’s about the pause. That’s when the world reboots, code flickering across the screen of my mind till everything goes blank and quiet again.

And when I come back, the first thing I see is beauty. A flower, a seed, that Fibonacci spiral turning through everything that grows. It’s in me too—the reminder that the journey itself is the destination.

So I keep tending. Keep creating. Keep letting Spirit steer when I’m too small to know the way. Because only water, I’ve learned, can shape a mountain without ever breaking itself.