What we already hold

What We Already Hold

We dream of distant mountains,

their peaks brushed white with wonder,

while moss grows soft between

the cracks of our own doorstep.

We scroll throughother lives,

curated light and laughter,

missing how the morning sun

has learned the angles of our kitchen.

There is no applause for this—

the way steam rises from your coffee,

how your dog's breath deepens into sleep,

the particular creak of that third stair.

No orchestra swells when you finally

understand your mother's recipe,

when your friend texts back with just the right words,

when rain makes that specific sound on your specific roof.

We want the lightning strike of meaning,

the viral moment, the crowd's recognition—

but life keeps offering us

the steady flame instead.

The same hands that hold your face.

The same walk around the same block.

The same small mercy of clean sheets.

The same voice that says your name like it matters.

What if we stopped waiting

for the extraordinary to arrive

and started noticing

we've been standing in it all along?

Not the stuff of stories, maybe—

just the stuff of living.

Not the destination—

just the being here.

Just this. Just this.

Just this ordinary, irreplaceable

this.