in the slowness, something blooms

i took the train—not because i had to, but because i could.
and isn’t that a little luxury? to go somewhere slowly?

i was wrapped in flowers: my skirt, my tote bags, even my water bottle covered in daisies. it wasn’t planned, just… happened. and i looked down, smiled at the accidental bouquet. i took a picture because something about it felt worth remembering. the soft clash of patterns, the green bottle tucked like a leaf, the way summer shows up in little ways.

there’s been more room for these moments lately. since stepping back from teaching full-time, i’ve been catching my breath and noticing more. reading poetry on the train—plath, dickinson, woolf—feels like meeting kindred ghosts. women who lived in their heads and gardens. who wrote about bees and rooms and the weight of being alive.

i underlined a line in a plath poem this morning that just sat in me. like it knew it was supposed to be there.

i’m letting myself read slowly. reread things. paint things without plans. i let colors blend or clash. i’m not trying to make anything perfect right now. just honest.

i think i used to rush so much—through commutes, through emails, through seasons. now i walk to the corner store and notice how the light hits the sidewalk. i write things down that don’t need to go anywhere. i listen to my cats breathe. i sit on trains without refreshing my inbox.

this blog might not be “consistent” or “on brand.” but i think that’s the point.
maybe it’ll be messy, like my sketchbooks. maybe quiet, like a sunday morning.

either way, i’m glad you’re here.
more soon—maybe after the next train ride.