You’re showing up, you’re tending,
and still—
something feels flat,
like the current isn’t flowing the way it usually does.
Sometimes, presence doesn’t bring immediate joy—
it just brings what is.
And sometimes what’s here is a kind of fog…
No drama not even despair. Just… dull.
But this, too, is part of the cycle
a kind of quiet integration that feels like nothing is happening.
But it is. This is the mulch of embodiment,
the in-between.
The soil isn’t blooming, but it’s not dead.
It’s resting.
So instead of trying to get to the joy,
what if we let this be its own kind of sacred?
Maybe today, it’s just a steady presence that says,
“Yes, I feel the heaviness too. I won’t leave you here.”
Maybe gravity today isn’t a pulsing aliveness—
but a slow, anchoring weight that says,
“You can lean here, even without spark.”
Maybe the Earth
isn’t singing today—
but humming low,
deep underground,
reminding you:
“My love isn’t only light—
it’s also density,
slowness,
and mystery.”
So let this part of the river have you.
Don’t make it wrong.
Let the fog be your companion.
Let the silence be enough.
This, too, is a kind of holy.
This, too,
is how the Earth holds you.
When the Earth Holds Your Fog
