[keenonealive]

For Cheston, Spoken Under the Full Moon

I want to say his name.

Cheston.

I want it to live on.

To move through the air.

To rest on the night like a prayer.

He is not here in body.

Yet his name still carries his soul.

I speak it so it will never be forgotten.

I remember the boy he was.

Sunlight in his hair.

That soft blond falling into his eyes.

The toddler who ran to me.

The boy who became the man who stood beside me.

Steady.

Sure.

He was my brother.

My confidant.

My compass.

My strength when I faltered.

I was older.

He was wiser.

I had seen more.

He understood more.

Beneath the armor the world asked of him there was gentleness.

A softness that met me where I was and held me there.

I leaned on him even when I did not know I needed to.

He held my secrets and my fears and my shame.

He did not turn away.

He asked for so little.

Only that I see myself as he saw me.

Whole.

Worthy.

Good.

And then I watched him fade.

My strong and vibrant brother.

The one who could light a room with a laugh.

He became a shadow of himself.

The life thinned in his eyes.

The strength slipped from his hands.

His chest rose one last time and then the room grew still.

I was there when his spirit lifted.

I held his head as the weight of it grew cold in my palms.

I washed his face.

Smoothed his hair.

Dressed him in the last shirt he would wear.

My hands trembled as I guided his arm through the sleeve.

I expected him to help, to lift, to meet me.

He did not.

He was gone.

That was my final act of love.

To care for him as he had always cared for me.

No tears came then.

Only reverence.

Only love so deep it felt like prayer.

Tonight it has been three years.

I stand beneath a full moon.

The light is silver and quiet.

His name is on my lips.

His memory is in my breath.

For a moment I feel him near.

I hear the echo of his laughter.

I see the bright of his eyes as they once were.

Cheston.

My brother.

My best friend.

My constant.

I miss you.

I honor you.

I will keep speaking your name so the world remembers.

Because love like this does not end.

It changes its shape.

It becomes moonlight.

It becomes breath.

It becomes the silence that is somehow full.

Cheston.

Be near.

Be at peace.

I am here.

I remember.

I love you.

[keenonealive]

[keenonealive]

[keenonealive]

Someone reminded me today to pause, and reflect. When I pause, life softens. In the stillness I let the noise fall away, and what remains is true.

Growth does not always arrive with a roar. It happens in the quiet moments after the storm, when the sky clears and I can see myself again.

Here I sit. Here I reflect. Here I gather strength and choose the next loving step. I tend to what is real. I listen.

I become the best possible version of myself. I am still, I am quiet, and I am at peace.

[keenonealive]

The Opening of My Senses, for SEM, written 9.23.25

He did not simply open my heart,
he unlatched the quiet rooms of my body,
windows painted shut by the routine, by weather and years,
and the air moved again.

His touch arrived like a hush,
gentle, almost hesitant,
the kind of nearness that asks permission
by offering it first.
His words were a warm porch light,
left on long enough for me to find my way,
and in that steady brightness
I took my time,
I was allowed to take my time.

I remember light…
golden spears through the window,
laying bars of days’ end on the carpet,
a pyramid built from sun and dust and breath.
I remember the sweet, floral trace in the room,
something like a garden after rain,
not a perfume, but a permission,
petals unfolding somewhere inside my ribs.

I knelt to gather the light in my hands,
lifted my gaze, and saw him new, green eyes hover,
a wonder I could finally claim,
a vow forming on my lips: this is for me.
He was sweetness without insistence,
a fragrance more gravity than gust,
as if the air itself knew his name
and called me nearer.

There was nothing hurried in us.
The world thinned to pulse and listening:
his breath shore against my breath,
his heartbeat spelling my own
back to me in a language I was born to speak.
Skin to skin, I traced the map of his gentleness,
the soft places, the strong,
the long lines of arm and leg, and I understood how a home can be a person.

I wanted to be with him,
not swallowed, not erased,
but poured together like two rivers
that keep their names and still become a sea.
I wanted the safety that does not cage,
the security that does not lock,
the love that is heat without scorch,
light without interrogation,
and in his eyes I found it:
a harbor that believed in my return.

For the first time, I understood lovemaking
as something made of love
not thunder, but rainfall
not conquest, but consent
the body saying yes to its own music.
Suddenly the old stories made sense:
the dog-eared novels,
the songs with their ache and laughter,
the secret glances traded across crowded rooms.
It all rushed toward me like a tide
I was finally ready to meet.

I knew it then,
how he fits the contours of my life:
mind to mind,
heart to heart,
body to body like a hand into its glove,
not perfect, but perfectly ours.
Even silence felt articulate,
And when the light moved lower on the sill,
slipping its golden ladders away,
what remained was the simplest truth:

I had opened.
He had opened too.
And where we met,
that bright, patient middle,
was the first place I have ever truly belonged.

[keenonealive]

Boundaries: a bridge, not a wall

I used to think boundaries were about control. If I set one, I must be trying to make someone act a certain way. I know now that boundaries are how I show up for myself. They protect, they do not punish. They create safety, not ultimatums. Healthy boundaries are not threats. They are agreements I make and keep with myself (my a-ha moment).

A boundary is about my behavior, not about managing someone else’s. It is me saying, “Here is what I will do to care for myself and for us,” and then following through. When I can express what is true for me in a way my partner can actually hear, real connection is possible. In this season of repair with my love, boundaries are the bridge that lets us meet in the middle without abandoning ourselves.

The specific boundary I am practicing:

When I feel myself getting flooded, when I want to overreact, go quiet, disappear, or avoid a hard talk, I will pause, calm my nervous system, and return when I am regulated. I will not argue from panic or shut down. I will take space to breathe, journal, walk, or pray, and then come back to the conversation.

How I will say it:

“I want to talk about this and give it the care it deserves. I need about 30 minutes to settle, and I will come back.”

This is not a punishment or a power play. It is how I keep myself steady so I can be honest without being harsh, open without being overwhelmed. Boundaries let me take responsibility for my part while respecting someone’s autonomy. They help me repair the relationship and grow my inner self at the same time.

Respecting boundaries is also an area that I’m working on. I can respect someone’s boundary without taking it personally when I understand that boundaries are not to punish. In that context, boundaries are truly self defining in ways to protect oneself and the relationship. 

I am learning that trust is built when I do what I say I will do. Not by trying to change another person, but by leading myself with clarity and care. That is the work. That is the bridge. 💕

[keenonealive]

“Hate, it has caused a lot of problems in the world, but has not solved one yet.” – Maya Angelou

I see this playing out every day in our country. Hate and judgment seem to run across all political spectrums, where disagreement is met with vitriol instead of understanding. We are quick to judge others, yet rarely pause to look deeply into our own hearts to see where ego and bias reside.

I want something different for myself. I want to choose peace in the face of division. I want to hold space for differences and accept that not everyone will think as I do, and that is OK. When people cannot offer openness, I want to offer it myself, remembering that I do not have to let hate or negativity take root in me.

My circle of influence may be small, but it is meaningful. It includes family and friends who have stood the test of time, and it includes the love I am repairing and building, grounded in appreciation for who I am and what I bring. That is where I choose to plant seeds of compassion and growth.

Change begins here, in the way we live, love, and listen.

[keenonealive]

There is a quiet confidence in giving up control. Releasing my grip on outcomes lets me stop guarding the path and start walking it.

Most of what I fear never comes to pass, and fear taxes today’s peace to pay for a future that does not yet exist.

Worry is an invisible weight: it exhausts without moving anything forward. In repair, that weight can strap you down, narrow your thinking, and slow your growth.

Letting the universe take its course is not neglect; it is trust. It frees energy for what I can actually do here and now—listen, tell the truth, choose again.

[keenonealive]

I am learning to loosen my grip on outcomes and to sit in the quiet seat of the observer.

I do not try to shape someone into a version that fits my old stories. I meet them as they are, and I show up as I am.

When I stop arranging and start listening, there is room for truth. In that space, people open. They do not have to hide or perform. They can breathe, and so can I.

[keenonealive]

The Eye That Mends

I am at the split, needle poised,

reading the tear for what it teaches.

The cloth of my heart pinches, remembers;

I steady it, breathe, and thread the quiet.

Gratitude fills my spool.

Friends keep the pieces from slipping,

family smooths the seam with warm palms,

and the one I love is a tested thread,

strong enough to draw two edges near

without pulling me thin.

Pain is here, a visible gap,

but I cross it with small patient stitches:

backstitch for trust, running stitch for breath,

darning where the weave wore through.

I tend this making with joy and kindness,

choosing clean thread, easing tight corners,

listening for where the fabric asks me to rest.

My body is a garment I care for.

I pin my days with kinder routines,

line my thoughts with gentler cloth.

After the jam and frantic clatter,

I slow the machine and sit with the feeling,

learning as I sew, teaching as I mend,

student and mentor, friend and lover in one pair of hands.

A lamp over the worktable, a light within me,

I tilt the seam toward it, share what I have,

let brightness travel the new line I’m making.

I end with a promise I can keep:

I keep the hum set to a frequency

that shapes my reality and focus.

Today is new, opening to better.

I can turn the fabric and sew another course. 🪡🧵📍

[keenonealive]

Where Roots Learn Light 🍃🪴

I open my hands to the seed and the rain,

loosen the earth and breathe out my strain.

I set down the trowel and notice the light,

how morning climbs softly along every height.

I thin what is crowded so new roots can start,

prune back the worry that tangles my heart.

Old leaves fall quiet and turn into loam,

what I release becomes food for my home.

I trust the dark soil where beginnings lie still,

the hush under ground is a patient will.

I water the present and let past winds blow,

not every cutting is meant to grow.

The sun keeps its promise, the seasons agree,

a bud learns its timing from sap and from tree.

What belongs in my garden arrives on its own,

what does not flourish is gently outgrown.

So I tend what is living and bow to the rest,

peace in each step and a soft leaning west.

I harvest the moment and let the leaves be,

I let go, I let grow, and I let it be me.

[keenonealive]

You are not the absence in a seat at a show;

you are the whole room of breath that keeps you here.

Even when plans break, you do not.

You are a root that knows where water is.

Tonight is heavy, and still, there is you,

choosing one kind thing after another

until morning remembers your name.

[keenonealive]

I tend the root of my own calm.

I place my faith in what is honest and present.

I trust the life I am making.

I turn inward,

to the quiet field where nothing is missing.

Here, breath finds breath,

mind rests in a larger mind,

and I remember: I am already whole.

Whatever comes or goes, I remain.

I am enough, and I will thrive,

moving through my days with clear eyes,

a steady heart, and the kind of happiness

that rises from within and needs no proof.

[keenonealive]

🔘 What if the very thing I am gripping is the thing standing in the way?

🔘 What if ease is not the reward at the end, but the doorway in?

🔘 What if letting go is not losing, but finally making room?

Lately I have been practicing a different kind of effort. Not the pushy kind. Not the fix it now, refresh the inbox, check the status kind. This is quieter. It feels like loosening my fist and remembering I still have a whole hand to create with. It is the kind of effort that sits with a feeling long enough to hear what it is asking for, and then takes one honest step.

Letting go is not giving up. It is choosing intention over control. I am keeping my aims clear and my hands soft. I am trying this in the real places of my life, not just in a post.

The meaning of my tattoo: ✨let them✨

I am sharing a photo of my tattoo. For me, let them is a practice and a prayer. Let people be where they are on their path. Let situations reveal what they are without forcing a shape. Let timing unfold without my constant management. Let them does not mean I do not care. It means I care enough to stop controlling. I will say what is true for me, choose what is healthy for me, and let the rest be what it is. When I remember let them, I feel my shoulders drop and my breath return. It is my shorthand for letting go.

☀️What it looks like day to day☀️

A morning line: I am clear on my aim, and I release the how and when.

One next step: not ten. One. Fifteen to thirty minutes, then done.

A boundary for spirals: I give the topic fifteen focused minutes, then I close the tab and return to my day.

A weekly review: What worked, what felt heavy, what I am retiring. Keep the lesson, lose the grip.

A reminder on my skin: let them

🦋 The shift I can feel

There is a difference between chasing relief and choosing presence. When I chase, I become smaller and tighter. When I choose presence, I feel more space inside, and my actions land cleaner. Letting go is not a performance. It is a posture. It is the quiet trust that what is meant for me does not require me to beg or bend out of shape. Let them is my compass when I feel the urge to white knuckle the day.

I am noticing small proofs. A softer conversation where there used to be a scramble. A night where my thoughts would not settle, and then did, because I sat with them long enough to release them.

I used to think peace would arrive after I solved everything. Now I am learning peace is how I will solve anything. Letting go is becoming part of who I am, not an item on a list. I want my life to grow the way my plants do: rooted, patient, facing the light without forcing the sun to move.

If you are reading this and something in you is tired of gripping, you are not alone. Try it with me, just for today. Soften your hold by one notch. Take one clear step. Leave the door open. Let what is yours find the space to arrive. Let them. 💫

[keenonealive]

✨Higher Consciousness, Right Now✨

I used to think “higher consciousness” sounded far away, like a mountaintop I could only reach after years of meditation. Today I see it more simply: it is a higher understanding of myself, my mind, my psyche, my emotions, and my actions, and how these parts of me work together to shape my reality.

When I become aware of that inner teamwork, I can operate in the world more effectively and with less noise. I can create the life I want instead of getting swept into what others want from me. Ultimately, this is about gaining my own power in a peaceful, grounded way.

Why I’m doing this now: because I’m tired of reacting from old patterns such as defensiveness, rushing, overexplaining, overspending, and overpromising. I want my choices to line up with my values: care, honesty, steadiness, and love.

I want my nervous system to feel like home.

How I’m practicing:

Naming and noticing. I separate facts from feelings, then name the feeling without judgment. This loosens the knot.

Breath and body. A three minute pause, a hand on my heart, a slow scan of my shoulders and jaw. If my body softens, my words soften.

Gentle inquiry. I ask, “What is this really about?” and “What would integrity choose here?”

Repair over rumination. When I stumble, I practice closing the loop sooner with clean language, not explanations that spiral.

Boundaries that bless. I can say no without hostility and yes without abandoning myself.

Small, consistent choices. Simplifying my space, refining my finances, and keeping promises to myself build quiet confidence.

Tending what grows. Like a garden, I water attention, patience, and truth, and I pull the weeds of impulse and fear.

I’m not chasing a perfect version of me. I’m learning how I function, so I can choose with clarity. Each time I pause before reacting, each time I tell the truth kindly, each time I honor my budget or my bedtime, I gain a little more power, not power over anyone, but power with myself.

Higher consciousness, for me, is not an escape. It is a daily practice of coming closer: to the present, to my values, and to the person I am becoming, one honest breath at a time.