Today was filled with light.
The sun poured generously through every window,
as if to remind me: life is still here.
And yet — I sat in the basement.
Deep in thought, deep in flow,
half in silence, half in sugar.
I said no today.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
But real.
In a conversation that wanted to reduce me,
I didn’t shrink.
I stood still, soft and strong.
A refusal born not from pride,
but from self-respect — newly earned,
or perhaps finally remembered.
And then there was the call tonight from my mom.
My father —
a routine operation that wasn’t.
A heart that stopped.
A breath that faltered.
A reanimation.
And me,
trying to make sense of
life returning,
fragile, unsure, but still — returning.
We just spoke.
His voice was quiet, but present.
He laughed when I spoke of the soul not wanting to go.
And I felt the ache.
The invisible thread between us.
The heartbeat that is no longer taken for granted.
How strange,
that in the same day I spoke about medical systems,
shared fragments of knowledge,
brought clarity to others —
and then found myself
held by the mystery of not knowing
what comes next.
I finished a close-to-heart project today.
Planned the next steps.
Wrote. Rested. Cried.
Felt love.
Felt tired.
Felt guided.
By something not loud, but always listening.
And now, as the day folds into itself,
I return to the image of waves.
The ones I rode.
The ones I barely survived.
The ones we measure to track a beating heart.
His heart.
Mine.
Not all waves are violent.
Some are gentle.
Some carry us back.