Not My Season Yet

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Your Season Has Not Come Yet

Not every flower blooms in spring.
I’ve always known that.
But when my turn doesn’t arrive,
my heart grows restless for no clear reason.

Lately, there have been many days like this.
A day clearly passes,
yet I can’t quite remember what I did with it.
I go to work, eat a meal, come home, turn on the light,
switch on the TV for no reason—
and turn it off again.

The world seems to be moving ahead,
while I feel as if I’m standing still.
As though days in which nothing happens
are quietly piling up.

But when I think about it more carefully,
maybe I’m not standing still after all.
Maybe it just looks that way—
as if nothing is happening.

They say trees do not appear to grow in winter,
but that is when their roots deepen.
Out of sight,
in a direction where no one applauds.

These days,
I feel like I might be passing through that season.
Quiet on the outside,
speaking less than before,
tired without a clear reason.

Still, sometimes the thought crosses my mind
that this time is not entirely wasted.

Flowers that bloom late,
they say, carry a deeper fragrance.
Because they did not rush.
Because they prepared with care.

Perhaps my season simply has not arrived yet.
Perhaps I am not paused,
but quietly taking root.

Today, too,
nothing remarkable happened.
But that does not mean
nothing happened at all.

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Not Everything Needs My Full Weight

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  Learning to Live a Little Lighter I’m slowly learning that I don’t have to give everything my full weight. Not every thought needs to be followed. Not every feeling needs to be explained. Not every person needs my whole heart. There were times when life felt almost unbearable— heavy days, quiet pain, moments I didn’t know how to name. But those moments came not to break me, only to teach me something I wasn’t ready to hear before. That I can learn. And keep learning. Even when I don’t understand yet. I’ve noticed that when I expect less, I’m disappointed less. When I try less to prove myself, I hurt less. Some people give too much, too carefully, and end up wounded by their own kindness. I’m learning not to do that anymore. To live a little lighter. Not careless— just lighter. I see it everywhere now. When I move gently, my body doesn’t ache as much. When I begin slowly, I don’t regret the next day. Most things hurt less when I don’t force them. Even ...
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The Back We Will One Day Show

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The Backs We Watch Watching someone’s back quietly, without calling their name, makes my heart a little more beautiful, a little more humble. The back of a delicate bird that flies away the moment you speak. The back of a white butterfly that dances off before you even think to call it. The back of a poet who stays for a long while, just because the sunset by the sea is beautiful. The backs of nuns walking slowly along a corridor, or sitting in silence, praying. And then— one day, before leaving this world, my mother appeared in my dream, empty-handed, walking toward the gate of the convent, her back turned to me. At a funeral hall, the backs of family members standing again and again before the portrait of someone they loved. Why do backs always look a little sadder than faces? Why do they make us stare at the horizon, as if waiting for something we cannot name? Perhaps it is because, someday, we know we will also leave quietly— imagining in advance the back we will one day show to th...
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She Simply Made Space

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The Quiet Act of Waiting She was not someone who tried to keep things. She was someone who knew how to let them go. Her hand was empty— not calling the bird, not preparing to hold it. Just open, as if flying away was always allowed. The white bird carried a letter, but she did not wonder what it said. Some feelings are already delivered long before they arrive. Things that leave rarely offer explanations. Understanding is left to those who remain. Petals fell. The light leaned toward evening. Below her, the city breathed as if nothing had changed at all. She was not waiting. She knew even waiting can become a way of holding on. So she simply made space. Some goodbyes are spoken through posture, not words. And some kinds of love remain only by knowing how to release them.
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