The Things that Root Us

by An marke

There is a quiet sorrow in the way we often walk through our days—not from pain that declares itself loudly, but from the small ache of overlooking what is quietly offering itself to us. We move through this world with eyes trained on the horizon, waiting for something luminous to appear, something that will confirm that we are finally on the right path. In doing so, we pass by the shy offerings of the present moment, like a traveler so focused on the mountain peak that he misses the wildflowers blooming at his feet.

We are taught, often without words, to seek the extraordinary: grand gestures of love, triumphs that can be measured, joys that arrive with thunder and light. But life does not always unfold in such drama. It more often reveals itself in stillness, in the softened light that rests on the edges of dawn, in the hush that follows the wind through a field. These are not the moments we chase, yet they are the ones that truly nourish.

How many times have we passed the gentle comfort of enough because we were chasing the illusion of more? How many times have we turned away from the simplicity of presence because we were looking for ecstasy? There is a form of poverty that comes not from lack, but from failing to receive what is already here. A smile shared with a stranger, the familiar cadence of a friend’s voice, the scent of bread from an open window—each a small sacrament in its own right, if only we had the reverence to pause.

We are often restless, believing that what we seek lies just beyond the next bend. This restlessness is not always misguided; it can be the mark of a soul attuned to longing. But longing can be a sacred fire or a blindfold. When it burns with reverence, it opens the heart. When it burns with hunger, it can close the eyes.

Perhaps the art of living lies in learning how to see—how to become a witness to the ordinary with the same awe we reserve for the extraordinary. Perhaps we must learn to bend low, to walk slower, to listen more tenderly. For the earth is constantly whispering beauty, and our souls are quietly aching for what they often overlook.

Joy is not always the soaring flight of eagles; sometimes it is the hush of dusk settling over the land. Peace is not always the absence of trouble, but the presence of something deeper—an unspoken alignment with the rhythm of life. The small is not always lesser. The quiet is not always empty. The plain is not always barren.

There is a wisdom in wild violets, growing unnoticed along a shadowed path. There is a lesson in their trust—they do not need to be seen to bloom. They offer themselves to the world without demand, without performance. How different would our lives be if we could do the same?

In every season, life gives us the chance to soften—to move from striving to abiding, from grasping to receiving. It is not about turning away from our dreams, but about learning to honor the depth already within our reach. Fulfillment is not a distant summit; it is the recognition of grace in the familiar.

So let us walk gently through our days, leaving room for mystery and silence. Let us honor the small kindnesses, the unnoticed beauties, the fleeting moments that shimmer quietly and then are gone. For in the end, it may not be the thunderous triumphs we remember, but the softness of light on a beloved face, the weight of a hand held in trust, the stillness we allowed ourselves to enter.

These are the things that root us. These are the things that last.

All my Love and Light,

An