What compacted soil and exhausted souls have in common—and what winter teaches us about the quiet work of restoration. A meditation on drought, rest & hope.

This is Part 1 of a three-part meditation on Florida prairies, sacred ground, and what it means to be a steward of the land. This week has been hard. The kind of hard that comes when people misunderstand you, when conflict arrives uninvited, when the noise of the world tries to convince you that you are something you're not. In the middle of the noise, we had to go to work. Had to smile. Had to pretend. Hope all things. Believe all things. Endure... all things. Wipe burning

It rained yesterday. The short, gloomy day of celebrating my birth. It's funny for me to be born in the short days of fall when I crave the long, warm days of summer. I watched as the browned fall leaves of my Momma's large sycamore became heavy with water, fell to the ground, and formed puddles along the edges of her driveway. A rainy autumn leaf rests delicately on vibrant green clover, capturing the serene transition from fall to winter. I can barely remember my age when