06/17/2026
A diary entry: The dichotomy of hopes and sorrows
My heart aches for the things pressed against it.
How far can I wade out and drift on the waves before I feel the sucking undertow and anticipation of a rogue wave as it swells over head preparing its self to pounce with a crushing crash.
How close to the canyons edge can I tip toe before it begins to crumble pebble by pebble giving way under foot. Rolling down a great distance until no sound is heard at its resting place.
This body holds my hopes and dreams in a soul craving for more and causes the sorrow deep within. Tissues too fragile to carry me to them.
I belong in the spaces and corners where I can be still and listen to your hearts break and give you the time and ear to hear you are not alone.
I pray for the opportunities of divine appointments where only a slow soul is ready to greet another there.
I belong in the fields of women searching for love and light and sisterhood. I also am a wildflower growing beauty out of the dry rocky soil of brokenness. We all add our own colour and fragrance to the summers meadow. Softness and stillness in the punch of startling beauty. Balancing dew on soft petaled cheeks and turning faces to the light, morning and afternoon. Closing and succumbing to the evening bow.
What great chaos it is to hold purpose and ability in balance. Constantly fighting the tipping and pulling from side to side.
A war within.
Oh what a joy it is to break free from its dungeon cell. Like the sun beams casting beyond the windows pane through the moted air created from the slough and dead like atmospheric pixie dust just for me to behold in the stillness and thoughtful warmth.
Are not wild flowers, pebbles and waves meant to be where they belong not in the going, but in the staying. Not in reaching but remaining. I cannot out run the storm before it takes me by defeat. Rather I shall grow deep roots here where I have been planted and bloom.
So if I have been made to be slow, let my purpose be in the noticing and sitting in place so that I do not miss what the hurried soul passes by.
Let the remaining ache be the catalyst of seeds in the breeze, pebbles stacked and waves churning up new systems that go father then the roots, boulder or sea. Let the whispers of hope through this heart take plant, build foundations and water the fields father and beyond what my eye will ever know. What my ears will ever perceive. What my soul will ever understand.
Humbly I sit in my small space and hold the tension in the air hoping that this sorrow turns the tides of hope towards the unknown and unreached.
June 16, 2026 Tasha Chenard
