the season of small things

how to trust the quiet work that doesn't look like progress yet

Somewhere, something small is holding everything together.

You probably won’t see it.

It won’t make the news.

There won’t be a ribbon cutting or a standing ovation.

It might be the moss slowly softening a stone.

Or the water wearing down the sharp edge of a canyon.

Or the way someone keeps showing up to a hard thing with love.

We’ve been trained to chase the visible, the measurable, the loud.

But there is a different kind of change.

This is the season of small things.

It asks us to listen differently.

To remember that everything monumental once began in miniature.

Some of the most life-altering shifts happen beneath the surface, while the world is looking somewhere else.

the gospel of moss

Moss is ancient.

Resilient.

Unassuming.

It doesn’t grow by conquering.

It thrives in shadows. In stillness. In damp, overlooked places.

It needs very little, and it gives everything back.

moss blankets the ruins.

It reclaims asphalt.

It whispers over gravestones and forest floors.

It embodies transformation.

In a world that demands spectacle, moss reminds us:

softness can be a strategy.

patience can be an act of power.

to live like moss is to take only what you need.

to give generously and without drama

to grow slowly and with purpose.

the wisdom of weathering

we’ve been taught that change comes like a lightning strike.

but maybe it’s more like rain.

not the thunderous downpour kind, but the kind that arrives again and again, gentle and consistent and undeterred.

the cliffs did not crumble in a day.

they surrendered grain by grain, under the tender pressure of time.

change, in its deepest form, erodes.

it smooths. softens. settles.

we forget that transformation doesn’t have to be fast to be real.

the sea kisses the land until the land becomes something new.

this, too, is change.

If you want to add your voice to the conversation, this is a good place to do it. I write every week, and I read the comments with care.

just the right size

activism has taught many of us to burn at both ends.

to do everything. be everywhere. fix it all.

but no one is meant to carry everything.

the moss teaches us that there is wisdom in limits.

it does not try to carpet the forest overnight.

it finds a single patch of stone or bark, and settles in.

it grows only where the conditions are right for it to thrive: moist, shaded, receptive.

and in so doing, it creates the conditions for other life to flourish.

moss teaches us that you don’t have to be everywhere.

you just have to be where you are.

there is wisdom in working within your limits.

right-sized work is not lesser work, it is lasting work.

to pay attention is to love.

to pay attention is work enough.

a blessing from the moss

may we trust what is slow.

may we honor what is hidden

may we believe in what is not yet blooming

may we find those spaces where the conditions are right for us.

may we feel the sacredness of the unnoticed

we are moss

we are rain

we are

what wears down mountains

Want to share your thoughts? I’d genuinely love to hear them. This space is a conversation, not just a monologue. Hit ‘reply’ or send me a message below.

Further reading -

you don't have to be healed to begin

Silver Buckshot

you are your best thing