Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?

Where we are going, I don't know. It doesn't seem to be the place that is important but the steps in between.

The world before us is a postcard, and I imagine the story we are writing on it.

Maybe staying on the surface keeps her from returning to a place where she can't breathe.

Do certain events in our lives leave a permanent mark, freezing a piece of us in time, and that becomes a touchstone that we measure the rest of our lives against?

I wonder at the weight of a Sparrow.

A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten . . .