I used to think “crossing the river” was the kind of phrase that belonged in old books; something meant for hymns, myths, or history. People on one shore, a promise on the other, and a stretch of moving water in between.
Then life pulled the metaphor into my actual day-to-day.
I’m in a crossing season right now. Not the dramatic, movie-scene kind. The quieter kind; where the old bank doesn’t feel like home anymore, but the new one is still out of reach. The water keeps moving, and somehow I’m moving too, even when it doesn’t feel like it.
Health is part of this river. Bodies are honest in ways we sometimes aren’t. They don’t always wait for a convenient time. They send signals: soft at first, then louder, until you finally stop and listen. And once you do, you realize healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a careful crossing: one step, one pause, one breath at a time. Some days I feel the current tug. Other days, progress shows up so small I almost miss it.
So I’m starting this blog as a record; notes from midstream. The main content will be my casual photography, because some things are easier to capture than explain. I’ll let images carry what words can’t: the light, the weather, the small details that make a day feel survivable. And alongside the photos, I’ll leave my musings: quiet observations, half-formed lessons, and whatever truth I can write down before memory smooths the edges.
Not as a performance. Not as a highlight reel. Mostly as a place to be honest while I still can: what this season feels like, what I’m learning, what I’m carrying, and what I’m slowly putting down so I can keep moving. I want to remember the practical miracles too—the decent sleep, the quieter mind, the moments my body cooperates, the rare day that feels a little lighter.
This is my first entry. A small flag on the shore that says: I’m here. I’m stepping in. I don’t know exactly what the other side looks like, but I’m crossing.