persimmonsrain

[persimmonsrain]

The backseat of the car

It was just a quiet car ride at first. The hum of the engine, the blurred lights outside, and two people sharing a little corner of the world for a while. Maybe the timing was reckless, maybe it was perfect: I told him, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, that I might have developed a tiny crush on him.

He was surprised, but not in that awkward way that closes people up. Instead, he carried my words gently, like they were a fragile truth that deserved a safe landing. And I clarified, as much for him as for myself, that this wasn’t a declaration or a wish for anything more. I had just stepped out of a heartbreak and romance was the last thing I needed to resurrect too soon.

What I meant, really, was that he radiates something kind and easy to be around. A warmth that draws people in, makes them feel lighter somehow. It felt unfair not to say it out loud because sometimes people should know when they’re a soft place to land in a restless world.

We drifted from my half-confession into a talk about compliments. How men, more often than not, grow up learning to deflect them, dismiss them, or joke them away. How genuine praise rarely lands where it’s meant to because so many don’t know how to receive it.

I told him: real compliments aren’t empty flattery. They’re born from careful watching. How a person moves, how they choose their words, the quiet things they do when they think no one’s looking. A compliment, then, is just the truth, spoken gently.

He paused, nodding, absorbing the idea like it was new and yet familiar. Maybe next time someone tells him he’s kind, or patient, or simply good company, he’ll know it’s not a passing courtesy, it’s someone’s quiet observation, offered honestly, asking for nothing back.

After all, why swallow sunshine when you can say it out loud? Some truths deserve a soft landing, at the backseat of a car.

[persimmonsrain]

Seeking mercy and being happy

Sometimes, the simplest acts bring the deepest joy: pouring fresh water for a thirsty cat, scattering a handful of kibble, or pausing to watch a soft purr curl into your day’s busy hours.

In moments like these, I often wonder “Does this tiny kindness count as charity, even when I do it simply because it makes me happy?”

From an Islamic perspective, the answer is gentle and reassuring: Yes and even more so when we remember Allah in our small mercies.

The daily ritual

Every day, I’m blessed to share my time and space with three feline companions

Poppy (a calico) is my early riser. She appears at my door around 5 a.m., so I leave the door slightly open at dawn’s edge to see her tiny silhouette waiting. There’s always a bowl of fresh water and some kibble ready for her. She’ll drop by again at noon and around 5 in the afternoon, like clockwork as if reminding me gently, “love me every morning.”

Peanut (an orange) is more unpredictable as he comes and goes as he pleases, often climbing in through an open window. He’s used to finding Pengo’s food waiting, and I make sure there’s always enough for both.

Pengo (my little cheetah) is my shadow most days since he lives with me, so he never has to ask. Still, I refill his bowl often, especially after Peanut helps himself. Occasionally , I treat all three to a bit of wet food, a small celebration of life’s simple joys.

Back in my hometown, another little soul, another Poppy (also a calico) waits for me, a quiet reminder that care is not bound by place.

A mercy loved by the Most Merciful

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ taught us:

“In every living being there is a reward.” (Muslim)

So every time I set down a bowl, open a window, or refill a dish, I remember: mercy to Allah’s creatures is mercy to myself too. And when my heart aligns with kindness, my soul finds calm.

Intention: weaving worship into daily love

Islam teaches that niyyah (intention) turns daily routines into worship. The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Actions are but by intentions…” (Bukhari & Muslim)

Now and then, I whisper in my heart:

“O Allah, I feed them seeking Your pleasure, and I thank You for the happiness they bring me.”

It’s such a simple thought but it transforms a chore into a quiet act of worship, a soft bridge to His mercy.

A small dua for a merciful heart

When feeding my furry children, I learn to say:

“O Allah, I do this seeking Your noble face. Bless me with Your mercy and make me among the people of compassion.”

Whether you care for a cat, a dog, or a hungry bird, know this: kindness is never wasted. Mercy nourishes more than just bodies, it softens hearts and invites happiness to linger at your doorstep.

May we be among those who feed, protect, and love all living beings seeking Allah’s mercy and finding our own happiness along the way.

[persimmonsrain]

A night and a night

I felt a sudden rage yesterday. When I read all the archived messages from my conversations with him. It was apparent that I was fighting the relationship alone.

For so long, I told myself we were a team, that love was about patience, forgiving silence, giving without demanding too much in return. But scrolling through those words I once clung to, I saw so clearly how I had carried the weight for both of us, while he lingered somewhere far from the fire I kept tending.

At first, the anger startled me. I’m not someone who erupts easily. But yesterday, the fury rose from somewhere deep not just toward him, but toward the version of me who begged to be chosen over and over again.

I sat there trembling, then sent him an email: “Call me when you can.” He didn’t call, instead, a flurry of messages landed on my phone, asking if I was alright. I told him, plainly, that I’d gone back through our old messages and found clear proof that he too had once wanted marriage, a life together, dreams that he had whispered to me like promises.

His reply came as a blow I hadn’t braced for: “Yeah, but then I changed my mind. I’m allowed to change my mind.”

It was so casual, so indifferent. And in that instant, the anger twisted into a grief so vast it nearly split me open.

I typed back: “If you say so. May this be our last conversation. I am through with us.”

Then, with hands that didn’t shake anymore, I blocked his number.

That night, sleep felt like a door left ajar. I drifted in and out of uneasy dreams, some where I argued with him all over again, others where we were back together, laughing like nothing had broken. I woke up more than once, my heart pounding at ghosts I couldn’t quite hold onto or push away. By morning, my body felt heavy, as if it had been wrestling all night with the anger and sadness I carried out of that last conversation.

And yet, despite the fight I waged in my sleep, I woke with a clearer head. That’s why people say give it a night, and a night, and a night. Sometimes the quiet hours do for us what daylight cannot: they soften the sharp edges, they remind us that even storms eventually run out of rain.

Today, the rage has cooled into a quiet resolve. Maybe this is what people mean when they say healing is not a straight line: some days I forgive him, some days I curse him, some days I stand in front of the mirror and forgive myself.

I don’t know if I believe in closure. Maybe some wounds never truly close; they just stop bleeding. And in their place, I learn to stand beside myself fiercely, tenderly, without apology.

There is relief now in the honesty of my own company. There is power in the anger that reminded me what I deserve: to be met halfway, to be loved without having to plead for hands that never truly wanted to stay.

So here’s to the sudden rage, the flare that burned through my illusions. Here’s to the peace that followed, when I looked at myself and whispered, You fought so hard for him. Now fight that hard for you.

[persimmonsrain]

The map and the dream

This past month in class, we’ve been traveling, not physically, but through screens, stories, and shared dreams.

London, with its double-decker buses and ancient bridges, came first. It was in our textbook, so naturally, we leaned in. But what began as a reading passage turned into something more: a journey. We watched videos of the London Underground, the bustling markets, the solemn guards at Buckingham Palace. My students laughed at British slang, tried mimicking accents, and asked curious questions about afternoon tea and rainy weather.

Then came Taiwan, my second home. I told them about the night markets, the smell of bubble tea, the kindness of strangers, and the MRT gliding quietly through Taipei. Taiwan felt closer, more intimate. The videos we watched weren't just travel vlogs; they were pieces of my life that I wanted to share. And they welcomed them, warmly.

One day, I showed them the railway maps of London and Taipei—so colorful, so complex, so overwhelming. Lines crisscrossed like tangled threads. My students squinted at the screen, following the maze of colors, before sighing in unison: "I think I'm going to get lost."

I laughed. “Oh, I got lost a lot in Taipei Main Station,” I admitted. “It took me around six months to finally be able to navigate the transportation system on my own.”

They looked surprised but also, relieved. Maybe getting lost wasn’t a failure. Maybe it was part of becoming brave.

What started as curiosity has quietly grown into belief. Not just mine but ours. Now we say it with a soft kind of certainty: One day, they’ll go. Maybe to London. Maybe to Taiwan. At least to these two.

Motivation is a quiet seed. You water it not just with lessons, but with images, hopes, and stories. With a glimpse of the world not as something distant, but something waiting.

My students may not have passports yet. But they have dreams that know their destinations.

And in this little classroom, that’s where it all begins.

What sparked your love for languages or travel? Do you remember the first place that made you want to go beyond borders? I’d love to hear your story. Let’s keep this window open together.

[persimmonsrain]

REM: Random, Emotional, Meaningful?

I know we read and talk about dreams a lot. But I just woke up from a nap today, with a dream of catching a lot of fish. Some with no skin (which was honestly terrifying), some with no scales. I don’t even really fish in real life, but there I was, pulling strange, silent creatures from the water, one after another, with a feeling I can’t quite name.

And it made me wonder again. what is this dreamworld our minds keep slipping into?

Because as it turns out, your brain doesn’t just rest when you sleep. It creates.

Welcome to REM Sleep, the Dream Arena

During REM sleep, your body goes still (a kind little feature so you don’t act out your dreams), but your brain goes full theatre mode. Lights up, emotions on, logic... off.

Behind the scenes:

Your amygdala, the emotion processor, is buzzing.

Your prefrontal cortex, the logic gatekeeper, is snoozing.

So it all makes emotional sense, but not always logical sense. Like catching fish with no skin.

And the strangers in your dreams?

Ever wake up after seeing a face so clear, so detailed, and yet... you've never met them? Neuroscience suggests your brain isn’t inventing faces from scratch, it’s borrowing them. Someone you passed on a staircase three years ago. A face in a photo you barely glanced at. The brain hoards faces like a quiet collector, and dreams are where it lets them loose.

It mixes and matches like a subconscious stylist: “Hmm… today let’s give this fisherman the eyes of a neighbor you’ve forgotten and the hands of your third-grade teacher.”

So... why dream at all?

Good question. There’s no single answer yet, but there are a few leading theories:

Activation-synthesis theory says your brain is just responding to neural noise and your mind builds stories around it.

Threat-simulation theory believes dreams help us rehearse for danger, like emotional fire drills.

Memory consolidation suggests dreams help sort and store the day’s experiences filing thoughts like an odd little librarian.

But science aside, maybe dreams are postcards from deeper selves, fragments of memory, emotion, metaphor, and mystery. Some are comforting, some bizarre, and others (like fish with no skin) linger with unsettling poetry.

But what I keep thinking about even now, hours later is how that dream felt real. The cold weight of the fish, the eerie stillness, the questions it left behind. I don’t know what it means. Maybe nothing. Maybe something quietly symbolic, still curling in the corners of my mind.

Dreams don’t always speak in straight lines. They speak in textures. In symbols. In half-felt things we might not have the language for yet.

So here’s to our sleeping minds stitching together fears, memories, and slippery metaphors. Let the strange dreams stay with you a little longer. Don’t rush to forget them. Maybe they’re your brain whispering something only the heart can understand or maybe they’re just stories we tell ourselves in the dark, trying to find meaning or feeling again.

[persimmonsrain]

A letter to the moon

Dear Moon, I see you most when I feel least seen. You appear so close. Silver-lit, almost within reach. But my hands, no matter how high they stretch, return empty. Still, I speak to you. In quiet rooms. Through half-dreams. You never answer, but I pretend you do. If I tell you I miss you, will it disturb the tides?

There are kinds of love that never find a landing place, not because they’re weak or unfinished, but because they were always meant to float, to orbit. Like the moon.

Some people enter our lives not to stay, but to show us the vastness of what we can feel. We love them not because we expect them to be ours, but because in their presence or even just in their memory we discover a part of ourselves we wouldn’t have known otherwise.

It’s tempting to believe that love requires closeness. That it only counts if it’s reciprocated, returned, or made official. But there is a quieter truth: sometimes love is simply the act of keeping someone safe in your thoughts. Letting them live, even if not beside you. And trusting that the beauty of loving, even at a distance, is still complete in itself.

The moon never comes down to touch the earth. And yet every night, we look up at the sky.

[persimmonsrain]

Seasonal feeling

Have you ever noticed how certain times of the year affect your mood, even when nothing big is happening?

For me, early June always feels a bit strange. Not exactly sad, but a little heavy. Maybe it’s because it sits in the middle of the year, a quiet reminder that time is moving, whether we’re ready or not. The school year is ending for many people, holidays are coming up, and there's this pause that makes you stop and reflect. It’s like the world slows down for a moment, and you suddenly realize how fast everything has been going.

Some seasons bring a quiet kind of happiness. Like the start of December, when the air feels different even in a tropical climate. People begin to decorate, take time off, or plan trips. The streets get busier, but hearts feel softer. I often catch myself feeling hopeful, like something good is coming, even if I don’t know what it is.

Other seasons bring different moods. March, for example, often makes me restless. It’s not quite the beginning anymore, but not yet deep into the year. I start thinking about changes, new routines, career plans, unfinished goals. I tend to question everything: Am I doing enough? Should I be somewhere else? With someone else? It’s not always comfortable, but I’ve learned to recognize it as part of the rhythm.

Even weather can trigger feelings. A sudden afternoon rain can make me pause especially when I hear it while working alone. It reminds me of being a student, or of slow Sundays at home. On the other hand, a hot and dusty day sometimes makes me irritable for no real reason. It’s not just about temperature. It’s about how the world feels around me and inside me.

Certain scents, too, bring things up unexpectedly. The smell of sunblock reminds me of beach trips with friends. The scent of fried shallots takes me straight to my childhood kitchen. These small things that may get unnoticed by others can open up a whole emotional memory.

I think a lot of us go through this, even if we don’t always talk about it. We just say we’re tired or “in a weird mood.” But sometimes, it’s the season we’re responding to. A certain month, a change in light, a pattern we’ve experienced before. It’s familiar in a way that doesn’t always make sense, but it’s real.

I’ve started paying more attention to these seasonal shifts in myself. I try not to overthink them, but I don’t ignore them either. It’s okay to feel a little off sometimes. We don’t need to have a big reason. Maybe we just need to be gentle with ourselves and notice.

So if you’ve been feeling different lately, more quiet, more nostalgic, more hopeful, or more easily annoyed, maybe it’s not random. Maybe it’s just the season saying something to you in its own way.

How are you feeling these days?

[persimmonsrain]

Fair play in love

I am the main provider for my three cats here on campus: Pengo, Peanut, and Poppy. However, Peanut and Poppy don’t live with me. They come for food, nothing more. Sometimes they linger, sometimes they vanish as quickly as they arrived. They don't come when called, and they owe me nothing. Still, I feed them. Not because I expect their loyalty, but because I understand the quiet deal we’ve made. They come hungry. I have food. That's enough.

Pengo is different. He lives with me, mostly at night. During the day, he disappears into the campus. I imagine he has a whole secret life out there: shadowing students, sleeping under trees, finding other hands to scratch behind his ears. But he returns. Every evening, as the sky folds into itself, he comes home, settles next to me, and breathes into the silence of the room like he belongs.

Doris Lessing wrote that you can’t own a cat, you can only be partners. I believe that. Cats are creatures of freedom. They choose. And when they choose you, even briefly, it feels like a kind of grace.

Sometimes I think their way of loving is cleaner than ours. Not warmer, necessarily, but cleaner. They don’t pretend. They don’t make promises they can’t keep. They show up when they want to, and if they come back, it’s because they want to. Not because they’re supposed to.

And that makes me wonder why we expect human love to be something else. Something bigger, or purer, or more endless.

We’re told real love should be unconditional. But that’s not how we’re built. We’re not gods. We get tired. We want to be held in return. We want to be understood, not just endured. That’s not weakness. That’s just what it means to be human.

I used to think I had to love perfectly, to give without ever expecting. But now I think: maybe all we need is fairness. Show up when you can. Be kind. Don’t hurt what trusts you. Mean what you offer. Don’t take more than you give.

Peanut and Poppy still come and go. Pengo still disappears every morning and curls beside me every night. None of them are mine. But they choose me, again and again. And somehow, that feels great enough.

Maybe that’s what human love should be too. Not perfect, not saintly. Just a quiet agreement: I’ll try. You’ll try. No harm. Fair play.

[persimmonsrain]

The wait time

No one prepares you for the wait time.

We’re told to be patient, but not what to do in the quiet spaces in between the pauses after goodbye, the stretch between sending and receiving, the long inhale between hope and reality. They don’t tell you that the wait time is not empty. It’s thick. It breathes. It asks things of you.

Sometimes it’s waiting for a message that doesn’t come, refreshing the screen as if the act itself could summon presence. Sometimes it’s the wait between questions and answers, where connection hovers but hasn’t landed yet. Other times, it’s sitting beside someone you love, both of you silent, not because you have nothing to say but because the moment is swelling with the weight of what cannot be spoken yet.

Waiting reveals us.

It shows how we handle not-knowing. Whether we grasp or release. Whether we distract ourselves, or stay and feel it all. From the doubt, the ache, the fragile wish that maybe, just maybe, it’ll turn out okay.

Psychologist Adam Grant, in his book Think Again, points out that these pauses of moments of silence and waiting are not just empty gaps. They are vital spaces where deeper understanding and empathy can grow. When we pause in conversation instead of rushing to respond, we create room for others to think, reflect, and share more honestly. The wait time becomes a bridge, not a barrier.

We wait in rooms, on sidewalks, in cars, in our thoughts. We wait in conversations that pause mid-air. We wait in relationships, in grief, in healing. We wait for the right words to come, for someone to change, for our own hearts to understand what they truly need.

And sometimes, the wait is where the shift happens. Quietly. Without warning.

Like tea steeping.

Like wounds closing.

Like forgiveness forming in the space where resentment used to live.

Not everything grows when watched. Some things only soften in silence.

So, this is for the ones still waiting. Not stuck. Just paused. Inhale. Don’t rush to the next moment. Stay here for a second longer. The wait time isn’t a void. It’s where the heart learns its own language.

What has the wait time taught you about yourself, your relationships, or the moments you once thought were empty?

[persimmonsrain]

She talked confidence

I had just finished my afternoon class when one of my students came into the room. Due to the holiday schedule, we English teachers had been rotating short time off, which meant students were temporarily placed with different instructors for a couple of weeks. At my school, teachers are assigned to various student levels during this time. My usual class had been learning with someone else, while I was teaching a different group as well.

“I am very confident today, teacher.” “You were?” “Yes!”

Her face lit up in a way that made me pause. She’s the kind of student who’s been open (sometimes painfully so) about how anxious she feels when learning English. So when she said confident, it didn’t feel small. It felt like a door creaking open, like the first hint of sunlight after a long clouded day.

“What did you do in Teacher Y’s class?” “We did a lot. We write and talk about Julio Iglesias.” “Isn’t he a singer?” “Yes, he’s a singer.”

While we were talking, another student strolled in and chimed in with an update.

“And we finish Unit 2, teacher. We can continue to Unit 3 next week!” “Wow, that’s great. How do you like the book so far?”

A few weeks earlier, I had decided to switch textbooks. The old one was well-intended but far too difficult and it felt like trying to hike up a steep hill with no trail. We needed something that spoke to them where they were, not where some publisher thought they should be.

“It’s easy, teacher! We like.” “So it is easier to understand the content?” “Yes, teacher. It’s easier to understand the content.” “Is it more straightforward? Like right to the point?” “Yes, teacher, straightforward.” “Oh, I am glad you guys like the book.”

Honestly, it was a relief. It’s easy to forget that materials can make or break a learning experience, especially when students are just beginning. What Tomlinson (2012) calls “matching materials to learners' needs” isn’t about dumbing things down, it’s about opening the door wide enough for them to want to step through.

The second student headed off, and the one who had come in first, the one who's feeling confident stayed behind.

“So, what did Teacher Y say?” “We did something and she said ‘you can do it’ and I do it.” “Were you nervous?” “Maybe, teacher. But I am excited… I am confident.”

That moment when a student balances on the edge between nervousness and excitement and still chooses to believe in herself is electric. I could almost feel the adrenaline she must have felt. Mercer (2011) talks about how these little affirmations can actually reshape how learners see themselves. And it’s true. Sometimes all it takes is one “You can do it” at the right time, from the right person.

“I am really proud of you. I am glad you were confident today.” “Thank you, teacher.” “I will see you soon then?” “See you soon, teacher.”

After she left, I sat for a moment, letting it settle.

Moments like these, the unscripted and honest, are the ones I treasure most. They remind me why I teach, and more importantly, how I want to teach. With patience. With compassion. With all ears. The kind of environment Jennings and Greenberg (2009) write about emotional warmth becomes the soil where confidence grows.

And when I sit down and reflect on this (something Farrell encourages in his work on reflective teaching), I’m reminded that it’s not just about language skills. It’s about showing up for students in ways that tell them: you’re seen, you’re capable, and your voice matters.

I feel so lucky that she trusted me enough to share her small triumph. For her, it may have just been a passing comment. For me, it was a quiet affirmation that teaching with compassion really works.

[persimmonsrain]

Why does rain take us back?

There’s something about rain that unearths the past. A scent in the air, a rhythm on the windowpane and suddenly, we’re somewhere else. Back in a childhood home. Back in a conversation we forgot we remembered. Back with someone we once loved, maybe even someone we once were.

Part of it is chemical. That nostalgic smell of rain has a name: petrichor. When raindrops hit dry ground, they release a compound called geosmin, produced by soil-dwelling bacteria. Our noses are astonishingly sensitive to it, so sensitive, in fact, that we can detect geosmin at concentrations as low as 5 parts per trillion. It's one of the most emotionally evocative scents, often unconsciously tied to early memories, especially those formed during formative years when we were more attuned to the natural world.

Rain also carries a trace of ozone, especially during a thunderstorm. That faint, sharp smell that often precedes heavy rain can stir the senses and sharpen awareness. Ozone stimulates the limbic system which is the emotional core of the brain and which might explain why certain memories or feelings surface more vividly when it rains.

But rain is more than just scent. It’s a sensory event. The white noise of falling rain has been shown to calm the nervous system. This soothing, repetitive sound can put the brain into a state of relaxed alertness, a fertile ground for introspection. It’s no coincidence that rainy days often make us quieter, slower, more inward-facing. When the external world softens, our internal world speaks louder.

Philosophically, rain feels like an echo that's not loud, but persistent. It reminds us of things unfinished. Of goodbyes we didn’t say well. Of joys we didn’t know were fleeting. Of lives we’ve lived in different versions of ourselves. Maybe it’s because melancholy has memory, and rain carries a quiet melancholy that feels strangely familiar.

Rain doesn’t demand we fix anything. It doesn’t rush. It just falls \ evenly, gently, sometimes chaotically and lets everything soak.

We never really know what memory will rise with it. But we open the window a little anyway. Just to feel it again.

[persimmonsrain]

Does time really heal everything?

People say it like it’s a law of nature. Like gravity. Like if I just wait long enough, something inside me will quietly rearrange and I’ll wake up one day forgetting how it ever hurt. I’ve been told time softens the blow, dulls the edges, replaces ache with something lighter.

And I don’t know. Maybe they’re right.

But here’s what I do know: time hasn’t erased anything. I still remember the way I felt in that room. The silence after certain words. The way I used to check my phone without realizing it. I still catch memories off guard, while doing dishes, in a familiar song, in the middle of joy.

It doesn’t sting the same way, but it still stings.

Maybe time isn’t a healer. Maybe it’s just a witness. Maybe what heals us is the quiet decision to keep moving anyway. To let the day carry us. To laugh when we don’t expect to. To not answer every ache with meaning.

I’m learning to stop expecting closure from everything. Some wounds don’t close. Some just become a part of you.

So, does time really heal everything?

I’m still living into the answer.

[persimmonsrain]

To let him go like I let him in

I loved him hardcore. With everything. With the kind of love that rearranged my routines, my priorities, my sense of time. I thought about him in the middle of conversations, in between lesson plans, in the silence of a shower. He was in the fabric of my day. I didn’t ration it. I didn’t hold back. I loved like my hands weren’t shaking. I gave like I didn’t know heartbreak. I softened parts of myself that took years to harden. I let him in.

And now, I want to let him go the same way I let him in fully. Not gently. Not quietly. I want to let go like tearing roots from soil. I want to scream into a pillow and then sip tea right after. I want to cry on the floor if I have to. I want to delete the pictures, write the poems, feel the ache until it leaves my body. Because if I loved without holding back, then I deserve to grieve without pretending.

Letting go isn’t graceful right now. It’s ugly. It’s unfiltered. It comes in waves. One moment I feel like I’m free, the next I’m checking my phone like a prayer. But I’m learning to accept that love and loss aren’t opposites. That I can still miss someone and choose to move on. That I can still cry and still mean it when I say, “I deserve more.”

This time, I won’t pretend to be fine too soon. I won’t romanticize the pain, but I won’t deny it either. I’ll feel it all. Fully. Because that’s the only way I know how to love.

I didn’t lose him. I released him. And in doing so, I found the parts of me I used to give away too easily.

[persimmonsrain]

He says, “Time heals all wounds.” But it’s not the wounds that hurt the most. It’s the good memories. The laughter in dimly lit cafés, the way he looked at me when I wasn’t watching, the softness we built between ordinary days. What aches isn’t what broke. It’s what was beautiful. And sometimes, the cruelest question isn’t “Why did it end?” But “If even the good things are destined to fade, what’s the point of beginning anything at all?”

[persimmonsrain]

Thread by thread

This afternoon, I finished an embroidery I’ve been quietly working on. It’s a little garden of flowers. Some in full bloom, some with petals deliberately left incomplete. The thread doesn’t always follow the lines. Some stitches stretch a little too far; others pull a bit tight. But only some of them were accidental. Some were designed that way.

Because growth, at least the kind that matters, doesn’t always look neat. It doesn’t always fill the frame. Sometimes, it’s jagged. Sometimes, it's quiet. Sometimes, it doesn't arrive in full bloom, but still it arrives. And that’s the part I’m learning to sit with.

There’s something liberating about choosing to leave parts undone. To say, this is still beautiful. Still whole. Even with what’s missing. Especially with what’s missing.

I often feel like I’m supposed to be more healed, more certain, more something by now. But today, I stitched a version of myself into fabric. The part of me that is messy, yet blooming, yet unfinished on purpose. It felt like honesty. Like softness. Like growth that doesn’t shout, but whispers, “I’m still here.”

Maybe this is what becoming looks like: not a masterpiece, but a patchwork of attempts. Of petals still forming. Of threads chosen with care.

And if no one else sees the meaning, I do. I see my growth.

[persimmonsrain]

Hi lonely heart

My heart feels so full when I’m with my students. In the morning, in the rhythm of lessons, in the way they smile when they understand something or when they don’t, and still try. Their joy becomes mine. Their presence fills the room, and somehow fills me too.

But at night, especially close to midnight, something shifts.

It’s so quiet. Too quiet.

I lie in bed, and the room feels bigger than it is. The echoes of the day start to fade, and I start to wonder… where did all the warmth go? Why do I feel this empty when I’ve spent all day loving and being loved?

It’s like the light poured out of me, but none of it stayed.

And maybe that’s what I haven’t learned yet, about how to hold myself when no one else is watching. How to not crave the reflection in someone else’s eyes to feel whole. How to love the silence that follows a day of presence.

The ache comes suddenly sometimes, deep, slow, unexplainable. Not sadness, exactly. Not loneliness, either. Just... a space I don’t know how to fill on my own.

In the quiet, I remember something: tazkiyah. The inward tending of the soul. Not a fix, not even a solution. Just a turning inward when the outside world has fallen quiet. A remembering that this hollowness isn’t failure but an invitation.

There’s a verse I hold close, not because I’ve mastered it, but because I haven’t:

“He has succeeded who purifies the soul, and he has failed who corrupts it.” — Qur’an 91:9–10

I don’t always know how to purify. Sometimes I only know how to ache. But perhaps even that is part of it. Perhaps the ache is the door.

And if it is, why does it still hurt so much to walk through it?

[persimmonsrain]

Wind warnings

Not all storms announce themselves.

Sometimes, the sea changes in ways only the body knows such as a sudden hush in the wind, a shift in the color of the sky, the absence of birdsong. The water, still and seemingly calm, holds tension beneath. Red flags, in these moments, don’t wave. They rustle quietly. And if you’ve sailed long enough, you learn to feel them rather than see them.

In life, too, the most dangerous crossings aren’t always the loudest. Sometimes, it’s the relationship that feels almost right, the job that looks good on paper but feels hollow in your chest, the laughter that echoes just a second too late.

We are taught to value endurance, to persevere, to give benefit of the doubt. And while there is wisdom in not giving up too easily, there is also deep cost in ignoring what the self whispers. Emotional intelligence research particularly Daniel Goleman’s (Emotional Intelligence, 1995) highlights self-awareness as the foundation of all emotional competencies. When we override discomfort, minimize tension, or silence intuition, we don’t just betray ourselves but also disable our internal navigation system.

But noticing a red flag isn’t about dramatizing every ripple. It’s about attunement: trusting the internal barometer that says, “This doesn’t feel right,” and giving that feeling the weight it deserves. It’s about distinguishing between discomfort that invites growth—and discomfort that warns of erosion.

In this sense, letting go isn’t a defeat. It is a reclaiming.

Kahlil Gibran writes in The Prophet:

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.” This breaking is necessary. It allows light into the places where we’ve stored denial, fear, and overcompromise. It is what transforms vigilance into vision.

In Islam, this process is mirrored in the concept of sabr, not passive waiting, but active patience. Sabr is choosing to stay firm in integrity, even when it hurts. It is refusing to grasp at quick solutions or shallow affirmations. Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya once said, “The level of patience you show when things don’t go your way is the degree of your trust in Allah.” To walk away from something unfit even when it once felt like everything is also tawakkul (trust in divine provision).

This is not easy. Because red flags don’t always feel like danger. They often come wrapped in charm, in almosts, in maybe-this-time-it’s-different. But learning to let go, learning to say “this is not mine to fix or carry” is how we grow into people who love themselves well.

And so, I chart a new course. Not because the sea is calmer now. But because I finally trust the way I read the winds.

Have you ever stayed somewhere longer than you should have—not because it felt right, but because it didn’t feel wrong enough? What helped you finally turn the sail?