“A thousand-year rain.”
Those words stayed with me.
The rain came, and kept coming. Familiar roads disappeared beneath water. Plans fell away. People worried about their homes, their businesses, each other. For anyone facing loss or cleanup, I’m holding you with care. There is a very real weight to a day like this.
And alongside that concern, I found myself sitting with a question.
How much of life do we believe we can predict? How often do we decide what is likely, what is available to us, what could never happen—and quietly build our lives inside those conclusions?
Nature has a way of reaching beyond the edges of what we thought we knew.
I turn to water often. The ocean is where I pray, release, listen. There are things I can bring to the shore that I haven’t yet found words for. I can stand there carrying something heavy and feel, for a moment, that I don’t have to hold it quite so tightly.
Then the water rises, and I’m reminded that the natural world has a life far beyond the comfort I find in it. Reverence asks me to remember that. To stay humble before something I love.
It also asks me to listen.
Lately, I keep returning to how much energy we spend bracing. Trying to make the outside world settle before we allow ourselves to soften. Waiting for the conversation, the decision, the money, the certainty. Waiting until everything is finally okay.
I have lived so much of my life that way.
And through practice, I’ve begun to discover moments of peace while something is still unresolved. A little room around the worry. Enough space to hear myself again. Sometimes only for a breath, but I recognize it now. I know I can return.
That is the possibility I want to keep exploring.
Could I feel supported before I have the answer? Could I loosen my grip without knowing exactly how things will unfold? Could something beautiful still reach me in a season I’ve already decided is only difficult?
The storm doesn’t answer those questions for me. It leaves me more aware of how much remains beyond my knowing.
I think of the times I was certain happiness was no longer available to me. How convincing that certainty felt. How much life has surprised me since.
So I want to be more careful with the word impossible.
If you have a quiet moment somewhere safe, place a hand wherever you notice yourself holding tension. Let your breath arrive without trying to perfect it.
Ask gently:
What am I gripping because I’m afraid to trust myself through what comes next?
Stay there for a moment.
Then ask:
What else might be possible—something I haven’t allowed myself to imagine yet?
You don’t need an answer immediately. Let the question accompany you. See what you notice when you leave a little room.
With love,
Paige
For a little more space to pause and listen, you’re welcome to A Ritual for Setting It Down, my free guide.
