Reflections

Two hands point at the sky.
A quiet wish for the clouds to move.

Not long later they do.
The sun slips through for a breath.

Maybe it’s coincidence.
Maybe it’s the universe winking back.

Some things don’t need answers.
Just a moment of stillness to be felt.

Waiting for a coffee at my cafe.
A mother impatient with her server, walked up and grabbed her bowl of chips.

Their table all took a bite and were met with a burnt mouth.

How often do we do that?
Rush the moment.
Skip the wait.

Some pain doesn’t come from the task.
It’s from not letting it cool.

While moving out I caught my hand on a box and split the skin right across my heart line.
The blood settled into the grooves of my palm in a perfect little star.
Sharp. Bright. Impossible to ignore.

Two days earlier I’d asked the cards what I needed to hear.
I pulled The Star.
A card that arrives after the dust has settled.
The one that says the worst of the storm is behind you.
You’re meant to slow down. Breathe. Reconnect.
Let your own inner compass switch back on.

So I’m standing there with my life half packed, feeling stretched thin, and my hand is literally marking me with the same symbol.
A star on the heart line.
Hope sewn straight into the body.

It’s Saturday. I’m darting through the shopping centre like it’s a game. Dodging trolleys. Sliding past people. Half-smiling at my own speed.

Then I’m back in the car, watching others rush across crossings with that same fixed stare. Everyone chasing something invisible.

We say we’re short on time, but most of the rush comes from clocks we set ourselves.

Maybe it’s not the world that’s moving too fast. Maybe we’re forgetting to slow down.

I watched the clock hit 1pm and felt that drop in my stomach.
The big task I planned to finish by now is still open.
A project I care about. A deadline I set.
The pressure hit hard.

It’s wild how fast the mind turns a late milestone into a judgement.
Not just "I’m behind."
More like "I’m failing."
That slide into frustration happens before you even notice it.

But a personal deadline isn’t a verdict.
It’s a marker on a path you chose.
You can shift it without breaking anything.
You can slow down without losing the work.

The task is still the task.
The day is still wide open.
You’re not failing. You’re adjusting.

Three rosellas perched beside me today.
Close enough to hear the tiny crack of their seeds.

Leaves drifted down in slow spirals.
Kookaburras called across the river.
Currawongs and magpies answered like they were all in on something.

I always thought I paid attention to nature.
Turns out I was only skimming the surface.

Something in me softened.
The noise in my head backed off.
The world around me stepped forward.

Maybe presence isn’t about trying harder.
Maybe it’s about finally being still enough to notice.

Last night I saw a number plate: 2CE6LL.
I read it as to see all.

Lately I’ve been questioning my purpose. Wondering what I’m meant to do.
But maybe it’s not about doing at all.

Maybe my purpose is to see… completely.
To notice the small patterns, the connected movements, the way everything ripples through everything else.

We’re not separate from the wave. We are the wave, learning to see itself.

The more I pay attention, the more the universe feels less like a puzzle and more like a mirror.

When spiritual awareness is alive in you, life hits softer.

Not because the storms stop.
Because you know you’re part of something bigger.

It’s not about belief or ritual.
It’s the quiet sense of belonging.

When that fades, the world feels cold and sharp.
When it returns, you can face anything.

Every child arrives with a spark of spiritual awareness. One third of it is built in. The rest depends on what the world nurtures.

But we trained it out. We built systems that reward logic and suppress wonder. Classrooms that shape sharp minds but quiet souls.

Now we call the result progress while people grow more anxious, lonely and unsure of themselves.

Maybe the next evolution of education is remembering what we already knew.

The mower hums. Grass folds.
Each row a quiet act of order.

It isn’t about the lawn. It’s about attention.
Effort you can see. Care you can measure.

Maybe pride lives here.
In the small things we shape.