The Hidden Journal

I used to think I had to go searching for meaning —
that it lived in the distant,
the divine,
the things I hadn’t touched yet.

───

But holiness found me
in the smallest places —
the sound of running water,
a spoon clinking in a mug,
the quiet weight of a blanket before dawn.

───

It isn’t something I chase anymore.
It’s something I notice.

───

The sacred ordinary lives everywhere:
in the dust that glows when sunlight finds it,
in the breath between words,
in the forgiveness I give myself
before the day even begins.

───

Nothing grand.
Nothing perfect.
Just presence —
and the knowing that this, too,
is holy.

───

— Desiree