Seeing Red.

entry four — scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.

I used to think “seeing red” meant I was losing it.

Rage. Shame. Fury so old it felt eternal—like I was born with it burning.

I have learned that is not always true. I have witnessed that sometimes, it blooms.

Not in fists. Not in voice. Not in overwhelming memories.

In the woods, on a soft stem I almost missed.

No thunder. No soundtrack. Just the quiet permission to stop and look again.

It didn’t demand to be captured. It didn’t beg to be picked. It just was.

This star-shaped wound of a flower, humming its red into the green—not angry, not hiding, not burning just to survive.

Just be-ing.

I thought, “maybe that’s all any of us need now.”

Not vengeance. Not closure. Just the knowing that beauty still rises where no one’s watching.

That peace can wear red and still be holy.

Be mindful.

Observe.

You might catch a glimpse of the peace behind the red you see, too.

xo,

c.