It feels good to write again. 
Something familiar amid all the noise of this new uncertainty. 

I am almost shamelessly addicted to coffee at this point in my life. 
I could blame it on a number of things, but really I think I'll leave it to the ritual of a warm mug between my hands in the morning and the aroma of comfort in what I'm convinced is one of its most tangible forms. 

People often don't believe me when I say that every moment of life is a bit of poetry to be discovered. 
But it's true.

The soft and small exchanges shared with others could fill volumes of the most beautiful lines, verse after verse, conversation after conversation. 
A wise woman and an old friend of mine once told me that she believed that every conversation shared with another person should be one of intent and meaning, one that furthered each individual in its own way. No wasted words. 
It's something I've adopted without even truly knowing how or why I have. 
I cannot thank you enough, Hope Spruell. 
Sitting in the backseat of that old Saturn named Kate with my crutches in my lap, I learned much in the sunshine of those afternoon rides that summer. 

Moments like that. Poetry. 

The way farmers at the Saturday morning markets lovingly handle every bushel, every bundle, every basket or bouquet before blessing other hands to hold these spoils of their labor of love. 

The way a stranger's eyes shine when you wait patiently for the response to "how are you?" rather than rushing away before the question mark has time to settle in the air.

The way people will truly be trustworthy if you let them. 

The morning after a storm when the rain falls softer with regret at its harsh words the night before: the intensity of its remorse or anger or mourning or fear. It tiptoes to the earth, whispering apologies, soothing the bruised ground, promising more patience, offering promises it cannot possibly keep.

The way voices travel from room to room through big houses. 

The way sunflowers know, better than we, how to turn home to the sun.

The way you feel when you drink water often and compliment others even more so. 

Old silos still standing even after the calloused hands of their construction are weak and weary under the weight of time. 

And laughter, pealing, unfurling, loud, unhindered, honest, deep, genuine, unashamed and overflowing with yellow joy laughter. 

And when your seeking stops, your heart can come and lift the shades - your open eyes will start to see. 

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