Category: Musings

  • Be Still and Know | The Truth Before the Peace

    Be Still and Know | The Truth Before the Peace

    Get still and be quiet.

    Stillness leads to loving thoughts. Loving thoughts lead to loving actions. Loving actions lead to peace.

    Stillness and quiet aren’t the goal. Together, they’re a doorway. Stillness creates the space for quiet to arrive. Quiet creates the environment for answers and understanding to materialize. But what shows up first might not feel quiet at all.

    What you meet in the quiet depends on what’s been locked inside. If your default state is anxious, chaotic, or angry, then stillness might feel like it’s amplifying that and quiet might sound like it’s yelling at you. But neither is the case. Stillness and quiet are just revealing what is making things chaotic or difficult, and giving you a space to understand those things so that you can genuinely sort them out.

    Stillness and quiet give us the opportunity to tame your own beasts, to take control of our own demons. This is what I mean when I reference “shadow work,” and it truly is necessary to experience the best version of yourself.

    Stillness and quiet reveal what needs to be healed. Continued stillness and quiet help you begin to heal whatever those things are, as you sit with them through introspection, prayer, and slowly shifting perspectives that lead to deeper understanding.

    It takes practice, and effort. Sometimes, weeks or months. Sometimes, years. It took you a lifetime to be conditioned and convinced that you’re who you think you are, most of which is a lie. Why would you expect to understand or overcome that in a single meditation session? Give yourself a break. Give yourself grace. God does…you can, too.

    You’re not “doing it” wrong if you find stillness difficult. You’re being given the sacred opportunity to feel what’s true without distraction. It takes time, and practice, to reach the peace beyond the noise. It’s not rainbows and roses. It can be gruesome. It can be literal war within. But it is the journey itself—the journey to that place of self-revelation and understanding—that becomes the goal, the purpose, and the truest solution to your concerns and your suffering.

    Rage, frustration, even self-loathing—they don’t mean you’re unspiritual or too broken to help yourself. They mean you’re carrying something too heavy to hold quietly. Stillness teaches you to listen to the noise around, and within, you—without becoming it.

    It teaches you to observe rather than to embody…which is the first step in putting down what doesn’t serve you, what isn’t yours to carry, what isn’t in your control, what isn’t your fault. That is surrender—whether you view it as surrendering to God, to peace, to stillness, or to whatever name you need to give it.

    Surrender is where we find wholeness. It is strength, not weakness. The greatest strength, I’ve come to understand. It is not giving up—it is giving over, releasing the grip of resistance.

    Even if you’re struggling, if you want to master yourself, then continue to try. “Unless, of course,” as my greatest teacher and dearest friend, Ralph, told me many decades ago, “you’d rather require more energy of yourself than stillness and quiet will ever require of you, only to fight the same battles you’ve been losing for however long, that are utterly controlling—and ruining—your life.”

    Continue to practice stillness and being quiet. Continue to meet yourself where you are. If you need help, many can help you—a teacher, a spiritual guide, or Source itself. Reach out. Ask for help. Don’t give up because it feels pointless or too difficult. Steadfastness is the key to any true success.

    Eventually, with compassion, with repetition, with breath and grace, those heavy, dark, negative, and painful feelings shift. They start to speak softer. And what’s underneath them—the longing to be loved, heard, and understood; the exhaustion; the soul underneath the survival mode—that’s when loving thoughts begin to rise, because you’ve learned to give those things to yourself. You’ve learned to become everything you always felt was missing.

    But you can’t skip steps.

    Stillness and quiet is not where peace begins. It’s where truth begins. Peace follows the truth, but you have to face and accept the truth, first.

    And that…requires stillness and quiet.

    Be still and know that I am God…

    Psalm 46:10

  • Focal Point

    Focal Point

    It’s as important as perspective. Perhaps even more so…

    We talk so much about perspective—about changing our view, reframing the story, finding the silver lining in the storm cloud.

    But sometimes, perspective doesn’t shift easily.

    Sometimes, circumstance leaves you standing exactly where you’ve always stood. The view is the same. The light hits the same edges. The shadows fall in familiar places.

    But even when the scene remains unchanged…the focal point doesn’t have to.

    Focus is a choice.

    A sacred, stubborn one.

    It’s the difference between staring at the problem and noticing the petal behind it.

    It’s where your attention lands, and where your energy follows.

    It’s learning to zoom in on grace even when grief is still in the frame.

    Lumix GX-7 + Panasonic-Leica DG Macro Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH + VSCO (A6 PRO) + Lightroom (watermark only).
    Lumix GX-7 + Panasonic-Leica DG Macro Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH + VSCO (A6 PRO) + Lightroom (watermark only).

    In these frames, nothing moved.

    Not the flower. Not the light. Not the angle.

    Only the focal point changed.

    And with that subtle shift, a new vision — a new truth— came forward.

    Almost always—including in life, and despite circumstance—the best composition doesn’t come from changing the scene but from learning which part of it to focus on.

    catacosmosis // 2025

  • Lifted

    Lifted

    entry twelve — scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.
    Lumix GX-7 + Panasonic-Leica DG Macro Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH. VSCO (A6 PRO) + DistressedFX + Lightroom (watermark only).

    There is a moment, early in a few blessed summer evenings, when the heat—the oppression—sighs and lets go.

    Not in protest, but in quiet surrender—the sun lingers, the sky softens, and a hush moves in with the rain.

    Steam rises like incense from the bones of the earth.

    You’ve felt that coveted shift.

    It’s not loud. Not showy. Just the heaviness loosening its grip on your ribs as breath returns without warning.

    This is how some battles end—

    Not with victory, but with survival.

    Not with a roar, but with a breeze.

    No fanfare—just rain through fractured light, and the ache leaving your body before you even know it’s gone.

    What remains?

    A field of yellow flowers—bent but blooming.

    Tired, but free.

    And air that smells like something holy—finally lifted.

    catacosmosis // 2025

  • Where Abundance Lives

    Where Abundance Lives

    It’s never been money or material success that has defined wealth for me.

    For most of my life, I chased meaning in moments loud enough to echo—grand gestures, perfect timing, outcomes wrapped in validation. But it was my most treacherous and grueling experiences—the ones that stripped me bare and rebuilt me from the soul up—that taught me something higher.

    They taught me to be still.

    To be quiet.

    To kneel at the altar of the subtle.

    A blurry cloud, simultaneously barely and boldly defining its own form, illuminated at just the right angle.

    Lumix GX7 + Lightroom (watermark only)

    A battered feather, found in the dead center of a forgotten dirt road, caught in evening light.

    Lumix GX7 + Lightroom (watermark only)

    The soft hush of trees at dusk, whispering the memories of the ghosts that still roam underneath them.

    Lumix GX7 + Lightroom (watermark only)

    This is abundance.

    There’s something sacred about catching these quiet offerings—the ones that ask for nothing but your presence. No performance. No hustle. Just your full attention. And I think that’s what I’ve been learning to fully morph into, slowly but surely, all my life.

    I’ve always been in love with nature, and over the past few years, I’ve begun to understand why—consciously, spiritually, viscerally:

    Nature doesn’t demand applause, but it offers everything to those who notice.

    Before caregiving and grief, nature called to me—quietly, consistently—and I always accepted her invitation to explore and to wonder. During caregiving, she became an escape. I retreated there as often as possible, weary and begging for rest that not even sleep could offer…and nature always obliged.

    Now? I don’t go to escape or to retreat, I don’t just visit. Nature meets me. Whether I’m deep in the woods or walking my yard…hiking a trail or running my neighborhood…now, I am always home.

    We live in a world trained to skim, to scroll, to monetize every breath of stillness. But this—this sky, this feather, this light that passes and never repeats—reminds me:

    Presence is the prize.

    It’s all around us, all the time, no matter where we are…but people don’t see it anymore. They no longer observe. Most have forgotten—that observation is a form of reverence. And reverence, when practiced daily, becomes a kind of homecoming.

    “Abundance is not found in money and material gain—at least, not for me. To me, it is found in nature’s unexpected surprises.”

    I wrote that in my memory while standing beneath the canopy of trees shared above as it held the last light of evening. There was no one else there. No applause. Just me, and the divine choreography of stillness.

    In that moment, nature herself invited me to remind you:

    If you’re searching for proof that you’re loved, that you belong, that there’s meaning woven through even the hardest days—

    Look up.

    Look closer.

    Be still.

    The abundance you’re looking for is already here.

    It’s been waiting for your eyes—and your heart— to land on it.

    Be present.

    Pay attention.

    Be observant.

    Your presence in the present matters.

    It’s where abundance lives.

    🪶💜✨

    catacosmosis // 2025

  • The Art of Being Alive

    The Art of Being Alive

    The real you is not a puppet which life pushes around; the real, deep down you is the whole universe. (Alan Watts)

    📷 Lumix GX-7 + Panasonic-Leica DG Macro Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH
    🛠️ VSCO (06) + Lightroom (watermark only)

    The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves. (Alan Watts)

    📷 Lumix GX-7 + Panasonic-Leica DG Macro Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH
    🛠️ VSCO (06) + Lightroom (watermark only)

    I stood in the green hush, face to face with a bloom so intricate it felt like a secret whispered by the wild. The passionflower doesn’t need to perform. It simply is. Unapologetically strange. Beautifully complex. Alive.

    📷 Lumix GX-7 + Panasonic-Leica DG Macro Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH
    🛠️ VSCO (06) + Lightroom (watermark only)

    I thought of the two Alan Watts quotes I’ve included above, and I thought of my dead loved ones. This is what I want to remember:

    📷 Lumix GX-7 + Panasonic-Leica DG Macro Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH
    🛠️ VSCO (06) + Lightroom (watermark only)

    That being fully present—here, now, in the middle of whatever hurts or heals—is enough.

    That passion isn’t always loud.

    Sometimes, it curls quietly out of the forest and dares you to look closer.

    This is what death has taught me about life.

    I’m really grateful I stayed, after they were all gone.

    🪽💜✨

    catacosmosis // 2025

  • Music Made Me Do It | Just Some Words

    Music Made Me Do It | Just Some Words

    Hi.

    It’s the end of the world as we know it…and I do not, in fact, feel fine.

    I just heard that song on the radio. It inspired introspection, which is more than I can say for most current popular radio. Bill, Peter, Michael and Mike may have felt fine when the world ended in 1987—but 2025’s version? It’s a different beast entirely.

    I’m not disassociating to the beat of their catchy chorus. No chorus, really…

    No matter what music I play, what books I lose myself in, or how many hours I spend painting, collaging, shooting and processing images, praying, meditating, or absorbing art—I can’t not pay attention.

    It’s like God has made it impossible for me to look away.

    No matter how many creative rabbit holes I disappear into, my soul keeps returning to the same painful truth: I still see the world clearly. And I still care.

    I’ve already finished 31 books this year. Some I began a year ago and it’s taken that long to finish them, but still. I’ve read a lot this year (speaking of which, what are you reading? Here’s my list, if you’d like some suggestions…).

    I’ve listen to over 200 albums, all told (2.717 tracks, according to LastFM).

    Watched 50+ documentaries—science, history, mythology, medicine, art, folklore, theology, religion, all sorts (according to my watch history on Amazon and YouTube).

    But no matter what I consume or create throughout these days and nights spent in the studio or my own den or bedroom, my heart always circles back to the chaos we’re living in.

    The blame shifting. The addiction and obsession and lack of self-control. The emotional manipulation—by the media, by governments, by people you thought you could trust.

    The hatred. The division. The apathy.

    Even the weather feels weaponized now—whether by nature or man, we may never know. And most days? It feels like we’re collapsing. Not just politically or economically—but spiritually.

    When children’s deaths are celebrated, when cruelty trends, when people are told, “it’s OK to mask your real pain by pretending to be someone you’re really not,” and/or real pain is ignored in favor of performance and profit…how do you call that anything but collapse?

    And still…I feel their pain, too.

    The ones lashing out. The ones clinging to false power. Even the ones I disagree with or who’ve attacked me—and the ones in real life who wish I would “just die”—I can feel the torment beneath their rage. Because it takes serious misdirected conditioning and trauma to become someone who cheers for suffering.

    I know what it is. I know myself and so many others have been purposely called to employ it. “Charged” with it, if you will. But I also understand now that that number is mighty small.

    It’s empathy.

    It’s spiritual discernment.

    It’s energy.

    And it’s real. That’s the loudest truth in me. I preach it, in comments and voiceovers and prose, and I practice it through my actions. I continue to do this, even if it makes me seem “crazy” to a world that calls numbness normal (and to some, that makes me a “glutton for punishment”).

    I cry with strangers on the internet more than I ever admit. Sometimes when I log on just to post art or check an email, I’m immediately met with headlines about another shooting, another suicide, another senseless death. And still, I pray. Because Spirit won’t let me stop seeing—and won’t let me stop loving, either.

    Prayer isn’t useless. Many feel that it is, and I understand why. But they’re wrong. Prayer isn’t useless—especially not when more than one person is praying.

    It creates ripples. It fuels the art, the writing, the stillness, the hope. It’s a frequency of resistance that can’t be monetized or hijacked.

    And maybe, as the world is in an overwhelming energy of doubt, fear, and anger, that’s the most powerful rebellion of all right now: to stay in the vibration of love, even when everything begs you to sink into rage or despair.

    So if you’re not feeling fine either—but you’re still holding on to your humanity, still radiating clarity, still praying or creating or showing up gently?

    You’re not alone.

    There’s sacred clarity in this discomfort. Keep not-feeling-fine. It means you’re still awake. And just in case nobody’s said it today:

    I love you. I’d like to bring goodness into your world. I’m sending it out to you whether you like it, or me, or not. I hope you’ll receive it.

    🌻🙏✨

    xo…

    c.

  • The Ghosts of Projects Past (Muse)

    The Ghosts of Projects Past (Muse)

    Sometimes something hits me.

    A random, inexplicable flux. That insatiable need to create. Some unseen force guiding me to conjure, to express, to birth something.

    It happened again last night, but in the same instant that I felt the proverbial tap on my shoulder, a heaviness threatened to settle there. Born and bred creatives know this experience, all the way into their bones.

    It comes with a dread, and creates a dangerous, self-sabotaging pre-regret. It manifests from a complete lack of vision:

    No concept. No plan. No brilliant idea waiting to be realized. Certainly, no idea where to begin.

    Lost but not lacking awareness, and determined to win over the weight of what really boils down to fear of failure, I asked, “what do we want? What is the spark?”

    As expected, the silence answered with more of the same cryptic transmission: “Just ‘do.’ Ripples turn into waves.”

    So, I rummaged.

    I plundered through the old tools and the old toys. You know the ones—the “Ghosts of Projects Past,” our artistic Scrooge’s worst nightmares. The ones tucked away in dusty, overflowing “Likely Garbage” photography folders and long forgotten apps.

    The ancient, the analog, the abandoned fragments of another era.

    I pulled out the remnants of what once inspired me, not because I knew what I was doing, but because whatever had stirred was creating a riot within me.

    These moments are never a question of choice, so I just…explored. Guessed. Played. Flowed.

    s e n t i n e l
    g r i e f

    Sometimes, perhaps most often, that is the best option. Even if the outcome feels unfamiliar or strange, or doesn’t resemble the “usual” desired outcome. Even if the result is wildly imperfect or impossible to explain…

    It is in this uncertain, instinctual process that magic lives and breathes. This is where it sizzles and crackles and arcs, like a furious current from Tesla’s coil—except in this case we don’t need Faraday’s cage.

    Creatives—artists, writers, dreamers, philosophers—need the opposite. We need this chaotic energy to touch, and to consume, us. It is the rejection, the not allowing it to, that kills us…and that is always a slow, excruciating death, from the inside out.

    In art and creativity, exciting results are not found in safety. They’re not found in perfection. Organic process is not found in planning. Everything in and about the Creative archetype is found in the act of simply showing up.

    Creative inspiration doesn’t ask for permission. It asks for presence. It asks that you show up and let it burn through you. The only wrong move is not moving at all.

    📷 Lumix GX7 + Panasonic Leica DG Macro-Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH Mega OIS
    ⚒️ Fragment + Mextures + Lightroom

    **Rex Ray inspired.

  • Beautifully Obsolete: Revisiting Roots

    Beautifully Obsolete: Revisiting Roots

    I’ve been wanting to go back to my beginner photography roots…back to the tools that first taught me how to see. Not the Leica fixed macro. Not the Sony or Tamron glass. Not even the newer body. None of my inherited equipment. Just…my roots.

    I used my fully outdated, beautifully obsolete LUMIX GX7—a replacement for my original GF3, long since gone—and its 20mm prime, with the same kind of macro filters that began and cemented my obsession with close-up work nearly a quarter century ago.

    A while ago, we cracked this geode open with a hammer. No fancy saws, just risk and dumb luck here.

    Original capture, using LUMIX GX7 + 20mm prime kit lens + stacked, simple macro filters (10, 4, 2, 1).

    I suppose one should be more careful with nature, but nature is often far more careless with itself (and with us) than we would dare to be.

    It takes that kind of recklessness to create rocks like this: extreme destruction, tons of pressure, and the long, drawn-out silence of time.

    The first shot is a 2×3 crop of the original, watermark added. It radiates stillness, but also origin. Not just a photo of a mineral, but the witnessing of an unveiling. Beauty born not of perfection, but of extreme heat and cold, of force and risk, of patience and faith.

    VSCO edit of original, using B5 Pro (further edits described below).

    The second is a black-and-white VSCO edit: a touch of clarity, a whisper of bloom, a cool tint in the lightly raised shadows, and a layer of grain like cosmic dust.

    But what is really there? What is the captured magic?

    In the first, I see the quiet unfolding of a secret. Light caught mid-breath, nestled in silence, not trying to perform, but simply to be observed. Crystals shimmering like they’re whispering, not shouting. Softness holding the sharpness in tension. Truth in the raw moment of becoming.

    In the second, I wanted to draw attention to the structure beneath the shimmer. The architecture of pressure. The monochrome strips away the sparkle to reveal something more elemental.

    Less about beauty, more about bones. A lunar map. The scar tissue of a planet. A meteorite’s grain. A deep-space scan. A memory of rupture, filtered through time. A chorus of diamonds at the end of becoming, born of charcoal and starlight.

    What do you see? Not with your eyes alone, but soul.

    Soul vision. That’s what I see with most often. Especially now.

    xo,

    c.

  • Aperture

    Aperture

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

    “He who has peace of mind disturbs neither himself nor another.” —Epicurus

    Lumix GX7 + Panasonic 14mm f/2.5 pancake lens + macro filter stack (QuantaRay +10, Bower +4, Bower +2) mounted w/46–52mm step-up ring.

    VSCO (SS1 Pro), Lightroom Mobile (watermark only).

    Aperture

    There is a kind of light that doesn’t just shine, but also fractures.

    It breaks open the moment with something softer than silence and more honest than certainty.

    You don’t chase it, you receive it.

    This image wasn’t planned.

    This frame wasn’t forced.

    There’s a stillness even the flowers seemed to know, and reflect back to me.

    It is not the stillness of silence, but of surrender.

    Not of bracing against beauty or the process of becoming-in-progress, or of apologizing for taking up space mid-bloom…but of letting the light have its way.

    I simply stood still long enough for the light to offer itself—scattered, wild, and full of grace.

    I saw what was really there:

    Buds preparing to bloom and light wafting in, yet also ambient and still.

    The entire moment was an aperture through which grace entered, unbothered and whole, needing no permission.

    And in that quiet moment, it became a mirror for all of us—one that perhaps none of us knew we needed, and that many would automatically overlook.

    How often do we chase clarity instead of becoming it?

    How often do we disturb ourselves, or disturb the world while attempting to distract ourselves, by blaming everyone else?

    How often are those moments merely us trying to be louder than what already speaks through us?

    There is no control in peace.

    No performance in healing.

    Only presence.

    And in that presence, we disturb no one—not even ourselves.

    We become the quiet offering.

    We become the still center in a world unraveling at the edges.

    Today, as I stood still in the midst of both internal and external war, peace didn’t arrive with fanfare.

    It arrived as fractured light through pine trees.

    As a silent, oft unnoticed breath.

    As a reminder that maybe the most sacred work is not to act, but merely to remain open.

    Not to close.

    Not to harden.

    Not to explain ourselves into exhaustion, but to become aperture.

    To simultaneously remain wide enough to hold what’s real and narrow enough to let illusion fall away.

    And, to be balanced enough in both intellect and empathy to know the difference.

    This is the answer: detachment.

    Not from emotion, but from illusion.

    It is not denial, not distance.

    Rather, it is the quiet rerouting of both emotion and cognition back to stillness.

    A return to clarity, not an absence of care.

    And somehow, by not reacting, by not reaching, we find we are already held.

  • Fragrance, Memory, and the Air Between

    Fragrance, Memory, and the Air Between

    The Quiet Power of Things That Don’t Stay

    Mimosa (Albizia julibrissin). Lumix GX7, Panasonic Leica DG Macro-Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH. MEGA O.I.S., Lightroom Mobile (watermark), VSCO.

    Not everything soft is weak.

    Not everything brief is forgotten.

    The mimosa blooms like a passing thought—pink, feathery, fragrant, gone before you’re ready. But even in its short season, it rewrites the air.

    And maybe that’s the point:

    To offer sweetness without needing permanence. To make magic in the margins.

    💚🌿✨

    Mimosa (Albizia julibrissin). Lumix GX7, Panasonic Leica DG Macro-Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH. MEGA O.I.S., Lightroom Mobile (watermark), VSCO.

    The Mimosa tree (Albizia julibrissin) is commonly known as the silk tree or Persian silk tree. Albizia julibrissin isn’t actually a true mimosa—though it’s been lovingly misnamed for generations. Native to Asia, this delicate tree has made its way into southern landscapes with grace and stubbornness alike.

    Its blooms are light as breath—powdery tufts that attract butterflies, bees, and human daydreamers. They bloom at dusk, shimmer in the wind, and drop silently—often leaving a petal-scattered sidewalk like a love note no one signed.

    Mimosa (Albizia julibrissin). Lumix GX7, Panasonic Leica DG Macro-Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH. MEGA O.I.S., Lightroom Mobile (watermark), VSCO.

    Though it’s sometimes called invasive, there’s no denying its presence feels like a portal: part nostalgia, part perfume, part dream.

    Its scientific name, julibrissin, comes from the Persian gul-i abrisham—“silk flower.” A name that suits it perfectly.

    Mimosa (Albizia julibrissin). Lumix GX7, Panasonic Leica DG Macro-Elmarit 45mm f/2.8 ASPH. MEGA O.I.S., Lightroom Mobile (watermark), VSCO.

    In folk medicine—especially within Traditional Chinese Medicine—the mimosa tree is known as the “Tree of Happiness.” Its fragrant pink blossoms and bark have long been used to lift the spirit, ease grief, calm the heart, and quiet a restless mind.

    The flowers are brewed into gentle teas, while the bark is sometimes tinctured for deeper emotional support. Often given to those moving through sorrow or heartbreak, the mimosa is considered a natural ally for joy, resilience, and emotional rebirth.

    #Nature // #Mimosa // #TreeOfHappiness