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Whispers, warmth, and the things that could make life glow. |
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Welcome to My Private Whispers and Light Blog Some places we create just for breathing — quiet corners where our thoughts settle, our hearts speak, and the small, bright things in life finally get a voice. This is mine. Here, I’m gathering the pieces that make my world feel warm and whole: • the love of my life and my family • art in every color and every form • photos, quotes, and little scribbles that catch me at the soul • Bible verses that steady me • daydreams, hopes, and the questions that keep me curious • wolves, birds, cats, and the creatures I’ve loved since childhood • podcasts I adore, memes that make me wheeze • and the writing that threads it all together ✍🏻 I’ve carried these whispers for a long time — tucked into journals, hidden in drafts, scattered across platforms. Now they finally have a home. If you’ve wandered in, welcome. Maybe you came for a poem, a thought, a spark… or maybe curiosity just nudged you here. Whatever the reason, I’m glad you stopped for a moment. I hope something in this little corner lifts you, warms you, or at least makes you smile. And if not… well, at least you’ll get to wonder why on earth you’re reading this jumble of thoughts and ideas. 🤣 Either way, the door’s open. Let’s see where the light leads. Always kind wishes, Tee |
 Wings and LightOldkoda sat on a large rock close to the fire. He dressed in traditional garments, a single feather tucked into his hair—more for the children than for himself. A pipe rested in his hand, though he rarely smoked it. It was part of the ritual. When he was ready to begin, he leaned closer to the flames and fed them a single stick. Sparks lifted into the night like tiny stars finding their way home. The children quieted, knees touching, eyes wide. “Listen now,” he said softly, his gaze reflecting firelight. “This is an old story. Older than me. Older than my grandfather’s grandfather. It is a story the fire remembers. It is the story of angel wings.” The flames shifted, casting dancing shadows. “Angels are not born with wings,” Oldkoda began. “No true bearer of light ever is. Wings are not gifts given at birth, and they are never handed freely. They must be grown.” The fire crackled in response, warm and alive. “Wings come from remembering who you are when the world tries to make you forget. They are shaped over many seasons, when life presses hard and the soul must choose, again and again, whether it will close itself to the pain—or open itself and endure.” Oldkoda paused. The hush around them deepened, as if the very night were listening. “There was one soul,” he continued, voice steady, “a lady angel, one among many, who chose that harder path.” “She learned early the weight of living. She learned that grief cuts deeper than the skin, that love always asks more than it promises, and that hope is sometimes nothing more than a small flame cupped in trembling hands through nights that seem to have no end.” The children leaned in, firelight flickering in their wide eyes. Beyond the circle of warmth, the world fell away. “There were times,” he said more softly, “when the sky gave no answers. Times when the path ahead blurred into darkness, silent and unmoving. But still, the angel walked. Still, she loved.” A stick shifted in the flames, sending a spiral of embers upward. “She loved when it would have been safer not to. She loved when kindness cost her dearly. She loved when no one was watching and no reward was waiting. The elders say this is where the first light is born—so faint at first that even the one who carries it cannot see it.” Oldkoda’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And in time, the wings came. Not all at once. Feather by feather, formed from mercy, endurance, and the quiet courage to forgive.” “They were not placed upon her like a crown,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “They rose from her like truth. And with them came something rarer still. The light she had carried in silence for so long began to shine.” The flames leaned inward, as if drawn by the hush. “When her wings finally opened, the heavens did not roar,” Oldkoda whispered. “They leaned closer. This was not a soul trying to escape the earth, but one who had learned to honor it.” He paused, letting the moment breathe. “She did not rise away from the world. The ground did not vanish beneath her. She rose within it.” The children sat perfectly still, as if even their breath might disturb the sacred hush. “Now the stories say she stands between worlds, wings spread wide. Not reflecting the light anymore, but becoming it. What once guided her now flows from her. She does not shine by force—but by presence.” Oldkoda looked at each child in turn. His voice was gentle and reverent. “She is proof that love endured becomes radiance. That compassion which refuses to fade becomes light.” The fire popped, sending sparks into the dark. “She did not steal the light,” Oldkoda finished quietly. “She became it.” A final pause. “That,” he said, smiling softly, “is how all true light is made.” Assisted Ai Digital Art by TeeM.  |
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