The Quiet Knowing For so long, I watched the horizon for signs of what was coming. A change in the water. A darkening of the sky. Some small indication of which way my life might turn. I wanted to know what the tide would bring, what it would carry away, what I might lose before I had learnt how to let it go. As though the heart could be taught to weather every wave if only it knew when the waters would rise. But the sea keeps its own counsel. The tide gathers, then loosens its hold. The waves reach the shore, break, and draw back into the deep. And somewhere between the ebb and flow, the shoreline holds what the water leaves and what it carries away. I have spent so long looking out to sea, trying to read the changing water, to make a map of every current, to know what lay beyond the next horizon. And yet— the moon does not ask the water to keep its reflection. The light breaks. The tide turns. And the silver path gathers itself again, only to scatter with the next wave. Perhaps some things were never meant to be held in one shape. Perhaps a life, too, has its own tides— the coming closer, the drawing away, the quiet shore between. And tonight, beneath the moon, I let the questions rise and recede. The waves grow quiet. Water slips over the stones, then draws away. Moonlight breaks across the surface. And I sit beside the water, listening to the hush. At peace with the unknown.