This morning, a squirrel climbed onto my patio and drank from the water pooling in a plant pot. Unafraid, it looked right at me—as if I were just another leaf in its world. A small, wild creature trusting the moment.
Later, I watched my granddaughter stretch her tiny hand out toward a dog—no fear, just curiosity. A gesture so open, so whole, it silenced everything else.
Courage, I’ve come to realize, often appears in these quiet forms. Not in grand gestures, but in stillness. In trust. In the pause before connection. As a writer, I return again and again to this: the courage it takes to meet a blank page with honesty. To reach for the wild, wordless places inside us—and to offer them to the world.
There is joy in every act of courage, in the quiet reach—toward a creature, a page, a moment—without knowing what will meet us there.
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