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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 |
Hope in Small Places * Grace Hope doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. It doesn’t announce itself or demand attention. Most often, it slips in quietly, almost unnoticed, settling into the ordinary moments of a day. It lives in small places. It shows up in a kind word spoken without expectation. In a stranger holding a door when your hands are full. In the pause someone takes to really listen, instead of rushing on. These moments are easy to overlook because they do not feel dramatic. But they matter. They accumulate. They steady us. Hope can be found in routine. In making coffee the same way each morning. In sunlight moving across a kitchen table. In the familiar weight of a book resting in your hands. These small anchors remind us that not everything is broken, even when parts of us feel fragile. Sometimes hope arrives disguised as grace. Unexpected, unearned, and deeply needed. It comes when someone forgives us before we forgive ourselves. When help is offered at the exact moment we are too tired to ask. When life softens, just enough, to let us breathe again. There are seasons when hope feels distant, when the world seems loud and heavy and unkind. In those moments, looking for grand answers can be exhausting. But small hope is manageable. It fits in our pockets. It does not overwhelm. It simply says, “You are still here. This moment still matters.” I think we underestimate how powerful quiet kindness can be. A smile. A note left behind. A hand on a shoulder. These gestures do not change the whole world, but they change someone’s world. And sometimes, that someone is us. Hope in small places teaches us to pay attention. To slow down. To notice what is still good, still gentle, still alive around us. It reminds us that even when the road is uncertain, light has a way of finding cracks to shine through. We do not need to search far for hope. We only need to look closely. Kind wishes, Tee |
| I received a call late yesterday from an author I work with regularly. She’s written a sweet, well-intentioned book. It isn’t the kind of book I would normally pick up and read, but it’s interesting in its own way. She was extremely upset about the publisher’s notes. The publisher had requested the full manuscript and told her they wanted to publish the book, but only if it met certain criteria. The notes were blunt. They took the manuscript apart piece by piece and essentially asked her to rewrite the book from a completely different angle. That conversation made me stop and think about motivation. Why do we write? Why do we send our work to agents or publishers? What is it we actually want? For me, the answer is easy. I write because it brings me joy to tell a story. Whether I send it to an agent, a publisher, or no one at all, the act of writing itself matters to me. And it brings me even more joy knowing that someone read my work and enjoyed it. Her answer was different. She wants to be popular, rich, and regarded as a successful writer. That’s a fair ambition. It’s just not mine. My number one motivator is the love of writing. I also value knowing that a reader connected with something I created. But not everyone will like what we write. You can never expect that, and you shouldn’t. Just thinking out loud here. The publishing world is incredibly competitive and full of obstacles. You can be the best writer in the world, and if the editor reviewing your book simply doesn’t connect with it, you may never even receive a rejection letter. That editor is making an important decision about your work, but it is still just one person. If one person’s opinion is enough to kill your joy or your desire to keep writing, then writing for publication may not be the right path for you. So, what am I really saying? Do not let one person dictate your future. Do not let one opinion squash your joy. And never let someone else decide whether your stories are worth telling. Write because you love it. Everything else should come second. |
Thanks for reading my blog. Alongside this space, I’m also writing something a little different on Writing.com: Sam’s Journal. [see link below} Sam’s Journal is a work of fiction written in first person, but it isn’t a traditional story or a typical blog. It takes the form of personal journal entries written by a young woman processing the aftermath of significant trauma in her life. Rather than focusing on events or details, the journal centers on interior experience. How survival changes the way someone thinks, remembers, plans, and moves through the world afterward. It is intentionally quiet, reflective, and sometimes indirect, because that is often how healing and memory actually feel. For readers who may have experienced trauma themselves or prefer to avoid graphic or violent content, please know that this journal does not describe the events of Sam’s experience. It focuses on what she carries emotionally afterward, written with care and intention. The voice you’re reading there belongs to a character, not the author. My goal is to write from inside her perspective, allowing readers to understand her emotional reality through what she chooses to say, and what she leaves unsaid. If you’re interested in character-driven writing, emotional truth, or stories that explore survival without sensationalism, you may find Sam’s Journal meaningful. Thank you for reading, and for reading with care.
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“May the child within us always remember the inspiration and pure love of our youth.” -by Tee M. Art work is Assisted Ai Digital Art by Tee M.  |
264 Words The Lantern Keeper There is a lake that doesn’t exist on any map—hidden deep within an ancient forest where the trees remember everything. Some say it was born from the dreams of dreamers. No one knows for sure. If you were to find this lake, you’d see a boat approach just before midnight. No one rows. It simply glides, pulled by the hush of forgotten dreams. In that boat sits a quiet soul—neither child nor elder, neither past nor future. A lantern hangs from the bow, casting golden ripples across the ink-dark water. It does not burn oil or wick. It burns memory. Each flicker tells a story—of first kisses under thunderclouds, of wolves dancing in snow-light, of names whispered between worlds. The light is soft but certain, as though it has made peace with both joy and sorrow. In the pine-shadowed branches, an owl keeps watch. It sees not what is, but what might have been. It is the guardian of the threshold between sleep and waking, between dream and remembrance. It does not hoot—only listens. Some say the Lantern Keeper is a dreamer lost within a dream. Others believe the lantern shines for those who wander—illuminating the path home, or leading the way to where the soul is meant to go. So sleep with ease, dear one. If ever you find yourself lost, The lantern keeper will be there, Lighting the way. And the boat drifts on— Because somewhere, someone still needs the light. Peace, blessings, and may your dreams always find their way home. Tee M.  |
| Yesterday, I came across a simple prompt inviting people to share their weekly goals. I decided to join in and keep it manageable. Just six goals for the week. GOALS: Ambitious in a Quiet Way (Jan 12/26) Tee’s top six goals for the week: • Write one short story for the Romance WDC folder • Finish the POV check on Chapters 10–20 of TMP • Read and review five additional chapters of M’s book • Get ahead on the journal with five new entries • Plan the next two blog entries • Write seven reviews for the Army, one per day if possible Ambitious in a quiet way. If you are interested go here: [#1949474] "Weekly Goals"  ______________________ This kind of thing isn’t hard for me. I already keep a running list that I review and update every Sunday night. I haven’t decided whether I’ll continue posting goals publicly each week, but I liked the idea enough to try it. I’m a list maker. It’s just how my brain works. These are the kinds of writing-focused goals I set for myself regularly. This is how I plan. I make lists. I make plans. I check off small accomplishments, and those checkmarks matter more than people might think. Make a plan and work the plan. Just for fun, here’s what my actual list looked like this week, made Sunday evening and kept pinned to the top of my notes for quick reference. It helps keep me moving forward. These goals are fluid, meaning priorities can shift as needed. GOALS (Jan 11–13): • Write a romance short story • POV check on Chapters 10–14 • Do any rewrites required for Chapters 10–14 • POV check on Chapters 15–20 • Do any rewrites required for Chapters 15–20 • Write the next five journal entries • Plan the next seven WDC blog entries • Write at least two backup WDC blog entries • Update the idea list and purge completed items • Read over Book Two for next-draft preparation • Write character sketches for the next five characters • Explore Max’s idea for displaying characters (it’s a good one) As time permits (back burner): • Work on the next entry for Rania’s story • Work on the Dice story • Figure out file transfers between iPad and computer (partly done Monday) • Research AI articles • Write January S-blog entry (remembering Paul and Mike) • Write January W-blog entry (another wisdom piece) • Write January M-blog entry (Milly cartoon) • Work on the website • Choose art for the website • Answer and purge Gmail folders • Answer and purge Apple mail folders • Answer and purge S mail folders and fix the error message A lot of these items stay on my list week after week, and that’s intentional. Seeing them there keeps me grounded in what I’m building toward. It reminds me that progress doesn’t always look flashy. Sometimes it’s just steady, quiet movement in the right direction. And honestly, that’s my favorite kind. |
This is an oil painting I photographed, then added a watermark and signature so I could share it here. I originally painted it from a photograph of my sister’s bird sometime around 1986 and gave it to her as a Christmas gift. When she passed away, the painting came back to me. Lately, my husband has been cleaning out our storage and brought home a number of my older paintings so I could decide what to keep and what to let go. When my granddaughter asked for this one, I felt an unexpected sense of peace. I’m glad it will stay in the family. Most of the others, though, will be donated. And that got me thinking. What do you do with all the things you collect or inherit over a lifetime? At some point, there’s simply too much stuff. But I’ve realized that what I’m wrestling with isn’t really about things. It’s about memory, grief, time, and the quiet realization that a lifetime gathers more than any one person can carry forward intact. Most of us reach this moment eventually. Sometimes it comes gently. Sometimes it arrives all at once in boxes and bins pulled from storage. Some things are meant to circle back into the family, exactly like this painting did. That isn’t clutter. That’s a story continuing in new hands. Some things are meant to be released. Donating older paintings doesn’t erase the years spent creating them. The act of making them already mattered. Letting them go simply gives them a chance to have a second life somewhere else, with someone who needs them. And some things only need to be remembered, not kept. A photograph, a sentence or two about why they mattered, and then letting the physical object go can be enough. Memory doesn’t live in boxes. It lives in people. And some things… you’re allowed to keep simply because they still speak to you. No justification required. It’s okay to feel relief and sadness at the same time. That’s normal. Letting go isn’t a failure. It’s more like editing, the way a writer does, shaping what carries forward and what quietly closes its chapter. I’ve lived a rich, creative life. Of course there’s too much stuff. It is all a sign that shows how much I have been loved and how much I love.  |
Six Interesting Things About Me 1. I was a dancer and ran my own dance studio for several years. I taught tap, jazz, ballet basics, classical pointe, and even gave swing lessons to my husband’s fraternity brothers. 2. I was a reporter, and for over ten years I wrote erotic fiction under a pseudonym. I attended many Alternative Living and BDSM community conventions during that time. I no longer write in that genre. 3. I love art, photography, and crafts. I have painted mostly in oils, focusing on birds, animals, and a few landscapes. My camera of choice is a Nikon D90. I also crochet, weave, bead, throw pottery, and sculpt. I sketch often and always keep a sketchpad nearby. 4. I broke my back when I was ten years old, and today I live with severe arthritis in my spine that causes chronic nerve pain. My doctors manage it through treatments that numb or ablate the nerves in the worst areas. 5. I have been a witness at three murder scenes. At the first, three people were killed. At the second, two people were killed. At the third, one person was killed. I know that is hard to believe, but it is absolutely true. 6. My grandfather had a farm, and I worked driving a tractor during tobacco season. I was fourteen, and even without a license I drove a large four door truck pulling a horse trailer, usually with two show horses, to get to quarter-horse competitions when my uncle was too drunk to drive. I rode western saddle. The image is Assisted Ai digital art by Tee M.  |
Emberly Gray’s Question Yesterday I was tagged by “Amethyst Snow Angel” and that is how I ended up writing this: “Does your hometown still influence the ‘vibe’ of your writing, or have you left those roots behind to create something entirely new?” Asked by “Emberly Gray” I mention my childhood now and again, but the truth is, part of it was painful, and I tend to keep those memories at arm’s length. I did go to my ten year high school reunion, but returning to my hometown isn’t something I choose to do. Still, I don’t think anyone can ever completely leave their roots behind, whether they are good or bad. My childhood taught me a lot about survival, about prejudice, and about lessons that still find their way into my writing, especially in stories for children. When I describe a fictional place, it often carries echoes of somewhere I once knew, even if I do not name it as such. This may sound strange, but even though I live in North Carolina now, only about ninety miles from where I grew up, I do not think of my hometown as a happy place. It is not somewhere I would ever choose to live again. So in that sense, yes, I do try to leave those roots behind. And yet, some things from that time remain priceless. My best friend, the one I met at my sixth birthday party, is still my best friend today. Having her in my life is one of the very best gifts my childhood gave me. I also find that I write about places I know. For me, a setting feels more real on the page when I carry some personal knowledge of it. And now that I have really thought about this, I realize I have used more of my roots in my stories than I ever noticed before. My knee jerk reaction was to say, “I left those roots behind.” But now I see that is not entirely true. — I posted that as a comment. Is there a moral to this story? Maybe it is simply this: when I truly stopped to consider it, I realized I had not left those roots behind at all. I still draw from a past I once believed I had escaped. Perhaps none of us ever fully do. What I understand now is that distancing myself from the painful parts of my history did not erase them. They stayed with me quietly, shaping how I see the world and how I write about it. And maybe that is not a failing, but a truth. The past does not disappear just because we turn away from it. Sometimes it waits patiently until we are ready to understand what it has given us. The art Roots is Assisted Ai Digital Art  |
| When Cancer Touches Writing This really is a post about writing, but it is also about how something like cancer can shape the words we choose and the stories we tell. The Big C. Yes, I mean cancer. I have lost many people I love to that hateful disease. Both of my sisters. My mother. My husband’s mother. My father, who died from complications caused by chemotherapy. And several dear friends. That list is long, and it still hurts. But that is not why I am writing this. I am writing because, through one of my other blogs, I met a man who has cancer. We have been writing back and forth for some time now, and what I admire most about him is his outlook. He knows he is dying, yet he refuses to let that define him. He does not want pity. What he offers instead are some of the most beautiful, hopeful messages I have ever read, especially knowing what he is facing. He is going through this alone. His children are grown, and he has no wife. Still, every day he shows up with words that uplift others. He talks about life, about gratitude, about meaning. Even on the days when treatment leaves him foggy and exhausted, he keeps writing. It matters that much to him. He is, in my book, a courageous and gifted writer. My mother was a writer too. A blogger. When she passed away, she had more than twenty thousand followers and received letters daily from readers who loved her devotional posts. She was a strong Christian woman, and everything she wrote was grounded in scripture. I still hear from some of her readers even now. They remember that I was her caregiver for three years and that I moved to be with her during her illness. Mom had lung cancer and was over eighty when she needed full time care. I chose to do that myself. We had help from Visiting Angels and in-home housekeeping, but no matter how badly she felt, she kept writing until her final days. It has been five years since she died, and I still miss her deeply. Lately she has been on my mind even more, because she would be so proud to know that my daughter is writing now too. She has always been gifted with words and has published many professional articles, but she is now working on her first fiction novel. When she came home at Christmas, we spent time together on her manuscript. As an editor, I helped her with some basics, especially in scenes that were new territory for her. Last night I finished reading the completed first part of her three-part book, and I could not be prouder. She has truly nailed it. She is not sure yet if she wants to publish. Maybe someday, after retirement. I respect that. She already has a successful podcast that supports her professional life, and she pours her energy into the work she loves. She once told me there is no such thing as free time. Only time we choose to fill with what matters most. And as a mom, and as a writer who comes from a long line of writers, there is something deeply moving about that. About watching the love of words carry forward, even through loss, even through illness, even through grief. Because in the end, writing is not just what we do. It is how we survive.  |
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