Welcome to Wildfrolics

Threads of adventure
scavenged and woven
from forest, desert, ocean, and shore
by Superball the Storyteller,
who lives off-grid
with other denizens of the redwoods

Meeting the Storm’s Quiet Fisheye

24 July 2025

There is a power much older than social influence, and that is the power of mystery.

—Devon Price, “Being Known, and Not at All”

Seen from an empty outdoor table across a cracked and empty small parking lot, a covered entryway like a portal next to a coiled garden hose in an expanse of stone and brick wall, centered in a menagerie of sculptures: a metal ox head flanked by two metal roosters above the entryway, a heron to the right on the sidewalk, and a multicolored little elephant peeking out of the alcove

A dark opening in brambles, scattered with yellow leaves

Well, hello, and welcome.

Just beyond the square toe of a black boot, between an opened wooden outer door and a brick-red inner door: a welcome mat, on the lower left corner of which is printed “GLAD YOU’RE HERE”

A barn-style interior door, slid open to a blank, shadowy white space with hardwood flooring

I sensed you were coming.

Two boxer dogs from behind, standing side by side at a window, looking out with full attention

A sorrel horse in open pasture in the distance, peering at the viewer through a bright gap in dark brambles

A treetop full of crows or ravens, with at least one—the topmost—gazing keenly forward

I am there for what unfolds, a participant in the great shared living, but never an author of it.

—Devon Price, “Being Known, and Not at All”

Standing on mowed grass alongside an airstrip, a woman in black—a knee-length fit-and-flare dress, heels (with white accents), a shawl covered in moons and stars, a jauntily tipped wide-brimmed hat with a bow, and a small camera bag—pointing a camera toward the airstrip

The woman turning to photograph a 1930 New Standard D-25 biplane taxiing in

If I move slowly, I don’t shift the ground too much, and I don’t scare any creature away.

—Devon Price, “Being Known, and Not at All”

Silent Descent, a full-size bronze sculpture by Heather Söderberg of a mountain lion slinking with a look of curiosity down a shaded mossy boulder, perhaps as though the black-clad photographer in the photos above has shapeshifted and turned to the left to follow the plane’s progress—with a park, a parking lot, and a river beyond

The lion from the front, facing the viewer

The lion, closer

In a museum, a massive old searchlight (unlit except by reflections of lights) pointing like a camera at the viewer

Forget everything. The world does not need you to do everything, or to be everything. The world needs the thing you’re amazing at. So do it. Or hone it. Or at least give yourself permission to search for it, or inch your way towards it, because it is there, waiting to be activated, to become potent, extra strength, the iron core, the red-hot magma, the pure essence of excellence, the thing that makes you exactly who someone else needs—and when you devote yourself to it . . . you will finally feel magnificent and buoyant and elated and free.

—Jason Feifer, “How to Become Incredibly Valuable”

C’mon in.

On a white interior wall, as though the mountain lion has sat to regard the viewer: a tall slim painting of a pale spotted cat by a small stream lit yellow by a full Moon (echoing the shape of the searchlight) directly over the cat’s head and over jagged blue peaks in the distance; artist unknown, to be linked if identified

A crosswalk with white salmon stenciled between the two white lines, as if the fish swim back and forth between the cat in the photo above and the river in the photo below

Seen from the air, a wide river flowing past a small town and among forested hills into a misty distance

In life, it has all happened many, many times before, in many, many places. The two trails lead afar. The story, so very old, is still in the telling.

—Harold Bell Wright, The Shepherd of the Hills

We can sit for a while by the pond, watch the dragonflies.

A smallish pond with goldfish at the edge, partially shaded by a deciduous tree and reflecting white clouds in blue sky

Seen from a taxi strip, a couple sitting in lawn chairs next to a small black helicopter with a gray dragonfly painted on it

I sometimes compare Urdr’s Well to Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious. I perceive the collective unconscious as a watery place (resembling the primordial ocean) where all thought forms and life forms remain accessible to those alive today. It is like a timeless well all beings dip into (or arise from). It contains the wisdom, knowledge, myths and symbols of our ancestors and deeply informs our spiritual or religious life.

It also contains the archetypes: timeless patterns, characters and narrative patterns. We all experience dark nights of the soul and make “night sea journeys.” . . . On our night sea journey we encounter a cast of characters familiar to all of us: the mother, the father, the hero, the witch, the King and the Queen, wise animals, the monster and the trickster, the cosmic mountain and the tree of life . . . .

—Imelda Almqvist, “When the Well Runs Dry”

A tiny pale-green frog on a weathered plank of a wooden walkway, looking toward green grass just past the edge, as if considering the quote above and watching the dragonfly helicopter above that

Here’s a blackberry-mint yerba mate—ahhhh, especially refreshing right now.

A storefront display in a pale-blue hue—with white robelike draperies—of paintings of a lighthouse, a hedgehog, a robin, two foxes, a kingfisher among cattails, a rabbit, and a barn owl; artist unknown, to be linked if identified

[The Baltic tribes] are an extremely humane people. They help those who are in danger at sea or are attacked by pirates. They value gold and silver very little. . . . One could say much praiseworthy about these people in terms of their morality. . . . All their houses are full of pagan diviners, healers, and soothsayers, even dressed in a monk’s robe.

—Adam of Bremen in 1075

Your company is majestic.

A metal plate (screwed into the side of an antique cookstove) that reads “MAJESTIC M’F’G.CO. ST.LOUIS”

A breeze rustles cattail leaves like octopus arms—mesmerizing, kind of trippy.

A framed, stylized night scene of a spirit horse, spirit birds, clouds, assorted shapes and symbols, and red flowers with tall leaves, which could be water lilies among cattails; artist A. Amit, to be linked if further identified

We people with arms will them to move, and yet there seems to be a type of will in the dance of leaves and breeze as well.

An eight-armed person (garden spider) hanging inverted midair, in their web, which is invisible against a pale background

A weblike net pulled across the bottom half of a vessel’s open entryway to keep passengers from falling into water the boat is moving through

In this moment, the leaves’ motion feels like it has something to do with me—with us—and come to think of it, in fact it does: I gave cattail fluff to my friend on an adventure one time, to put in his pond.

A roadkill raptor with pale-striped brown feathers, head unidentifiable in a mess of down like cattail fluff between the wings, sprawled at a white stripe on asphalt

The raptor carcass relocated—wings respectfully spread as if in flight—onto dried leaves at a green verge

We can be a frenzied mess, can’t we?

In a barstool hip-shot, the two boxers in action on a tile floor: one (Bug, dumb) looking pathetic and confused over a chew toy, and the other (Bill, less dumb) a blur of motion, as is a human foot (intelligent) just beyond her

In time, everything comes to a rest (until it arises again).

An orange Bug (Volkswagen Beetle) and a red Bill (Willy’s Jeep) displayed between small planes in a museum

We can’t be saved from ourselves, nor by ourselves—but we can leap at a chance for transformation, even if we’re chicken.

In a grass verge dropping away to a steep forested hill, a big, rough, freestanding post—really just a planted log—to which four plywood carvings are attached, so it looks akin to a totem pole: a 3D, painted gray chicken head at the top, under which is a yellow-painted little set of wings, under which is a sky-blue–painted bigger set of wings, under which is a smallish walnut-stained salmon leaping skyward

It is worse to stay where one does not belong at all than to wander about lost for a while and looking for the psychic and soulful kinship one requires.

—Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run with the Wolves

Seen from the water, a row of wooden riverside Native fishing platforms

A great blue heron fishing from rocks in a river’s shallows

A closeup of the salmon carving above, with the notch at the base of the blue wings now holding offerings: a pocketknife and a diamond-shaped Choward’s lemon mint

And the Moon is the eye of the fish up so high, in the ocean above that is the sky.

—My friend Facet 44 (shared with permission)

A silhouette of a small twin-engine plane flying free as a heron across a cloud-swirled sky

I’ll keep shedding these parts of me, lurking in the grasses with all the other creatures where I belong.

—Devon Price, “Being Known, and Not at All”

Two trees growing happily from a yellow blanket of their shed leaves

A doe curled up, resting and gazing at the viewer (whose phone, taking the photo, is reflected on the interior of a window), near the base of a medium-size deciduous tree that’s growing in the midst of a juniper hedge and has a birdhouse in it—with a cottonwood grove in the middle distance and dry scrub hills beyond that

Seen through a speckled window (also with smartphone reflection), two of the doe’s shed parts, plus an adoptee: two half-grown fawns snuggled under an overgrown juniper hedge and a third standing near them, looking backward with curiosity

I am aware that we do not save each other very often. But I am also aware that we save each other some of the time.

—James Baldwin, Nothing Personal

Seen through a fence of vertical black bars, an abandoned swimming pool’s steps under rays of sunlight, with a hint of garbage congealing at the deep end

If it doesn’t feel balanced to bail someone out of a mess they’ve made (again), though, it doesn’t make sense to do it, however painful it is to witness a loved one’s hardships and do nothing.

The setting Sun, smoke-tinted, among out-of-focus blobs of residential-street color, through the close grid of a high window screen

The Sun above a straight two-lane blacktop and haystacks, shining through smoke haze at the edge of clouds, so that it appears surrounded by a blob of lava trickling in an erratic stream down the sky

We often need external events or influences to shake up our world, especially when we’ve become too set in our ways. Of course, this can be quite scary, especially if we’ve become addicted to the sense of being in control or shutting out unpredictable things. When that happens, even the most minor inconvenience or unforeseen event can feel like a great crisis. . . .

So, there’s a sense of sudden enlightenment or illumination in The Tower. The situation has become suddenly very clear, the true nature of things is revealed, and what we thought was solid and sturdy crumbles around us. Like Death, this is something that occurs many times in our lives, and it is not a process to be feared.

—Rhyd Wildermuth, A People’s Guide to Tarot

I know all too well the many times when I was not helped in the way I wanted to be, which ultimately led me even beyond where I dreamed of being.

A vista point on a forested mountainside, looking over a hill in the middle distance and, beyond that, a vast valley under a light haze of smoke

In the extreme, these situations become like my marriage was, where if I didn’t do what my husband wanted, he threatened suicide. I finally disentangled myself from those snarls by the slow but full and visceral realization that if he were to kill himself, that was his choice, not mine. Otherwise we were both going down—and almost did. At least I could save myself: one out of two was better than zero out of two, even if the one was me and that appeared selfish. (Ultimately he stayed alive and went on to climb the corporate ladder and to father children, at the latter of which I had drawn a rare hard line.)

We’ll need to finally let The Tower fall, the consequences play out, and seed better things for all of us in what remains.

—Rhyd Wildermuth, “September Letter”

A dry grassy lot enclosed with chainlink fencing except for a gap on the far side, which opens—between a big happy deciduous tree and the lowering Sun—toward an abandoned Park Motel, the roadside sign for which is partially obscured by the tree

True gifts—whether tangible or of time, energy, or space—must come wholeheartedly: they can only be offered, not demanded.

Deep-burgundy sunflowers with yellow coronas around their seed-disks, openly offering beauty where they in turn were nurtured: along the inside of a tall wood-and-wire fence, beyond which are dry pasture and sage-desert hills

It had been forever since I had watched a sunset. I closed my eyes, trying to soak up as much heat as I could. For a few fleeting moments my pain, my hunger and my miserable way of life disappeared. I felt so warm, so alive. I opened my eyes, hoping to capture the moment for the rest of eternity.

—Dave Pelzer, A Child Called “It”

A bumblebee clinging upside down to a bright-yellow tomato flower, surrounded by green tomato leaves, with young green tomatoes growing in the background

The joy I experienced once I freed myself—with the assistance of a kind coworker, the closest thing I had to a friend by then—spread to others, so ultimately my “selfish” action has benefited many, right up to this moment, if any of these words resonate with you.

On a cornflower-blue wall, four items mounted one above another: a gilt-edged round clock showing 3:29, a placard that reads “On Duty,” a placard declaring “Paris” to be on duty, and a small white sign with freeform edges that suggests, in a whimsical font, that the reader “Find the Wonderful In Today”

Joy often pours out of me as tears: evidence that I’m where I need to be, doing what I need to be doing. It’s different than bliss: more solid—grounded as well as inspired, and reinforced. I even feel it when facing something grim but important and necessary, like when Gandalf faces the Balrog (“YOU. SHALL NOT. PASS!”) or like in Gregory David Roberts’ Shantaram, when Lin (Greg’s alias) experiences the essence of freedom while being tortured: he’s freed from fear, because he’s already undergoing the worst possible thing, but even more than that, he realizes that no matter what his torturers force him to endure, they have no power to force him to hate them.

Between a sidewalk and a parking spot, a life-size alligator sculpture of dark metal, chomping on a crane sculpture of light metal

I haven’t experienced such extremes, but I know what it’s like to stand my ground for love. In this, joy is a type of guidance and strength from wise, powerful forces.

The first time I took part in ayahuasca ceremony, in a room full of people vomiting and crying out as they faced their worst traumas and deepest fears, I watched as the ceremony facilitators guided those who needed assistance getting up and walking through the dark to the bathroom. In the ceremony, if you needed assistance, you would shine a red flashlight on yourself, and someone would come. . . .

I was in my own medicine experience. I saw these interactions and was flooded with recognition. When people are vomiting, when they need to use the bathroom, when they are unable to control or repress their bodily, animal needs, or when they are otherwise vulnerable, we have a choice. We can choose to ignore the need and look elsewhere. We can choose to humiliate and degrade the person in their need. Or we can protect their dignity, by acknowledging that all people have needs and experience vulnerability, and help the person. As I watched the ceremony facilitators walk in dignity with people in deep vulnerability, I recognized that this is some of the most fundamental and important work that we can be doing.

—Clementine Morrigan, “The Dignity of All Exploited Creatures”

A lone pale-lavender pansy with (from out to in) a white, purple, and yellow center, among deer-chewed stalks still sprouting leaves

Such workers need not be human. Living off-grid, partly in a tent and partly in another human’s part-time space, I feel more at home, more held and accepted for how I naturally am—by all the beings of the forest—than I’ve felt since childhood, or perhaps ever.

The boxers Bill and Bug in a homey living room (on grid), appreciated for how they naturally are: Bug vigorously shaking her head, ears and jowls flopping like silly putty and stub-tail a blur, while Bill, curled up cutely on a dog-bed, looks on with interest

I certainly feel vastly richer than at my monetarily flushest, when I ventured a step or two up the corporate ladder myself (and still worried about covering expenses). Now, whenever people ask me what’s a good donation for a rune reading, I tell them whatever feels good is best, because it’s more about the feeling than the amount. Somehow these and others’ patchwork gifts and reciprocities are always—often miraculously—enough.

On a scratched wooden countertop with greenery out of focus through a window beyond, a big black mug with “STAY WILD” etched into it in white

I do still miss something, though—or someone, or some as-yet-unexplored aspect of someone, maybe of the Wild God, the Green Man.

Seen from beneath the boughs of an apple tree, across the edge of a fenced pasture, a buck on a gravel driveway, browsing on low leaves

A place of true belonging—where I will ultimately live out my days, securely rooted after all the roaming, completely free to follow natural inclinations, probably along a rugged coast—remains elusive.

A rabbit crouched cautiously on gravel under the axle of a vehicle with a chocked tire

There, my needs, joys, and gifts will fully complement others’ (human and otherwise).

With a green apple on the ground at their feet, a half-grown fawn standing under an old apple tree on short dry grass of almost exactly the same color as the fawn, looking up at the viewer with intense surprise and wonder

I no longer feel in a rush to get there, though.

The rabbit, rear legs extended and hind end up, moving along in no hurry

For one thing, my home is solidly within me, to access anytime I need strength.

On a white wall, above a folded white bathroom towel, in a shaft of sunlight, a print of a painting depicting a house nestled among a variety of trees on a rough, rural one-lane blacktop, with big hills beyond; artist unknown, to be linked if identified

Through a small, high window recessed among shower tiles in late sunlight, a view of house- and treetops, beyond which are hills that look remarkably like the ones in the painting

For another thing, although I don’t know how I’ll reach that place from here, I know it will require a massive transition.

Small planes secured to tarmac, beyond which are trees, then forested hills, and then a huge mountain almost obscured by mist and/or smoke

Seen from the right front passenger seat, the biplane taxiing for takeoff

Somewhere deep within me, I know where I’m going and how that path feels, if not how it looks.

A depiction of a horse painted with colorful patterns and celestial bodies, rearing into a desert night sky with what is probably the Bear Lodge butte in the background, framed with images of prickly pear and the words “THE MEDICINE HORSE APPEARED OUT OF NOWHERE / MEDICINE HORSE / DREAM TALKER CARRY US ON THE SPIRIT PATH AROUND AND AROUND THE CAROUSEL OF THE MEDICINE WHEEL”; artist unknown, to be linked if identified

It is the rapture I get when in writing I seem to be discovering what belongs to what; making a scene come right; making a character come together.

—Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being

Seen through a dirty window at which sit a jade plant and a napkin dispenser that looks like a printer or typewriter, a black cat and a black kitten sitting side by side, looking toward a dirt track flanked by a two-wheeled axle, a single tree, and a forest of fenceposts

He had left home a lad, and when, after so many years of hard and trying experience, he found himself homeward bound, such was the excitement of his feelings that, during the whole passage, he could talk and think of nothing else but his arrival, and how and when he should jump from the vessel and take his way directly home. Yet, when the vessel was made fast to the wharf and the crew dismissed, he seemed suddenly to lose all feeling about the matter. He told me that he went below and changed his dress; took some water from the scuttle-butt and washed himself leisurely; overhauled his chest, and put his clothes all in order; took his pipe from its place, filled it, and sitting down upon his chest, smoked it slowly for the last time. Here he looked round upon the forecastle in which he had spent so many years, and being alone and his shipmates scattered, began to feel actually unhappy. Home became almost a dream; and it was not until his brother (who had heard of the ship’s arrival) came down into the forecastle and told him of things at home, and who were waiting there to see him, that he could realize where he was and feel interest enough to put him in motion toward that place for which he had longed, and of which he had dreamed, for years. There is probably so much of excitement in prolonged expectation that the quiet realising of it produces a momentary stagnation of feeling as well as of effort.

—Richard Henry Dana Jr., Two Years Before the Mast

The people of my place, who I already sense, will be overjoyed to see me, having waited all this time, as I have journeyed long for them.

The cats nuzzling each other

Sometimes, at 4 AM, this knowledge is almost enough to force a reconciliation between oneself and all one’s pain and error. Since, anyway, it will end one day, why not try it—life—one more time?

—James Baldwin, Nothing Personal

Seen from the side of a rural two-lane blacktop through dry fields and oak-scrub hills on a mostly cloudy day, a feathery white clump of roadkill on the double yellow center line

The clump, revealed (more or less) to be the remains of a barn owl, complete with feet, now respectfully arranged with a stick on dried grass among scraggly clumps of plants with yellow flowers, so that the owl appears to be taking off from a branch, wings spread

I wonder about the childless ones who, like me, are the end of the line for our particular arrays of ancestors.

A buzzard flying high overhead, seen from under a silhouette of leafy deciduous branches

Maybe we’re the culminations of those predecessors’ work together: jumping-off points for that unique mixture of energy to take other forms and augment other things.

A cottonwood broken off high up the trunk

The witch is created by the land to speak for it.

—Peter Grey

Dead branches in mud just beyond the toes of two bare human feet standing on a mossy stone

But I have never thought that if only presidents or billionaires or CEOs would see the light, they would transform the world. They are less powerful than we think. They seem powerful when they comply with dominant systems and ideologies; when they extend the reigning mythology of civilization. But when they defy it, the forces that had filled their sails turn against them. They may still accomplish beautiful goals, tacking against the wind. But they cannot change its direction.

The prevailing winds do change. Cosmic and elemental forces, all co-resonating with human consciousness in evolution, gather and disperse the winds. . . . The heavy lifting has been done by those who, through thankless sacrifice and patience, have built a field of love, kindness, healing, and generosity. They are the ones who summon the wind. We story-tellers merely draw on energy of their sacraments. So, who is really in a “position of power”? Today somewhere in Sudan or Haiti or Gaza, a man gave up his last piece of bread to a grandmother he barely knew, so that she could feed a famished child. He never advertised his sacrifice. Maybe no one will ever know. Maybe neither he, the child, nor the grandmother will ever live to tell the tale. The dominant theory-of-change says that his sacrifice, therefore, had no effect on the world. But anyone who is fortunate enough to witness such an act understands upon witnessing it that something important has happened; that it was in service not just to that child, but to all children; that a principle of human nature has been fortified; that a declaration has been issued to God’s witness: “This is what a human being shall be. This is what a human being shall choose.” These are the hidden yogis who have held our world together.

—Charles Eisenstein, “Shades of Many Colors”

Two white bowl-like mushrooms growing from a lawn, each about the size of a foot clad in a dusty black boot next to them

Back on the tile floor, Bill and Bug a blur as the latter bops the former on the head

Do you know where you’re going, too, deep down?

Bill the boxer, forepaws on my jeans-clad lap, the joyous question of whether she can jump into it written all over her face

How’ve your nights been?

The two black cats, walking together, tails up

Two framed images of tigers: one with the the tiger looking to the right and the words “FLYING TIGERS” on either side, and one in which the tiger faces the viewer and a sharklike old plane, #47, appears to fly from the face, over several signatures

For three nights in a row, I’ve half-awakened sometime before dawn, wracked with an intense wave of energy coursing through me, at the edge of what I feel I can stand but also weirdly pleasant: a welcome illness.

A long train paralleled by powerlines across a dry remote open landscape with a single tree in the middle distance and purple hills on the horizon

Each time, I’ve practiced relaxing into it and letting it pulse through to muted, misty mornings, which burn off into mostly quiet, sunlit days.

The Sun shining from a clear blue sky through towering ponderosa pines

Speaking of energy flow: At a movie theater recently, I sat in an empty area near the front with a popcorn and a Siberian Freeze. As I tucked into them with gusto and the previews played, suddenly something caught in my throat—a popcorn kernel skin, exacerbated by the drink’s constrictive chill?—and a coughing fit seized me.

A wall display of cough-starting energy-flowers (sparkplugs)

Covid-conscious, I sank in my seat and willed myself to stop, tears streaming and shoulders shaking, but surely people heard and hated on me, thinking I’d brought the lurgy into their midst. The coughs ricocheted through the entire amusement park of my body—a veritable festival! Neither panicked gulps of water nor the previews—violent and creepy—soothed or distracted. I feared I might have to step out to get a grip on myself—facing the rest of the patrons both ways—or even give up on the movie altogether, but then I thought of an 80-year-old long-distance cyclist I’d picked up on the verge of heat exhaustion: he’d said, “I’ve learned to trust my body and ask when I need help.” I closed my eyes against all the agitating thoughts and images, effectively asking for and granting myself protection from the onslaught. Then I found I could relax everything, which included my throat. The compulsion to cough stilled. If I opened my eyes to the action, the urge to cough rose again. Finally, after a couple of tries, I could remain relaxed and detached with eyes open.

A framed depiction of a red male lion, whose gaze seems to pierce the viewer even from an angle, the frame glass of which reflects one end of a set of longhorns mounted on a wall above a small brick structure; artist unknown, to be linked if identified

A closeup of the doe at the base of a tree (shown earlier), still staring at the viewer, left ear now seen to be missing its tip

I made it the length of the movie, even continuing to nurse the popcorn and Siberian Freeze, careful with each bite or sip to retain balance.

A vintage poster with an illustration of soldiers standing hunched under a flare in a war-torn landscape at night, with the instruction: “IF A FLARE GOES OFF WITHOUT WARNING, FREEZE. KEEP YOUR FACE DOWN. YOU MAY NOT BE NOTICED IF YOU REMAIN STILL.”

This trick could come in handy in other ways.

In front of the entertainment center, in the base of which is a green light, Bill now peacefully curled up on my legs and nestled against my pink T-shirt, which depicts butterflies in the heart and stomach areas

For now, perhaps it’s best to stop for a moment in consideration of the coming storm.

In watery sunlight, a stop sign at a T-junction of a curving desert road, beyond which are hills with dark rainclouds

When you find yourself in the eye of the storm, surrounded by these metaphorical clouds of despair, life can feel incredibly daunting and overwhelming. . . . However, it’s crucial to recognize that sometimes, sadness enters our lives not as a permanent state, but as a teacher. It comes bearing important lessons, helping us to find balance in our emotions and experiences, and fostering a deeper connection with others who may be experiencing similar struggles. . . .

Sadness has the power to strip away our ego, revealing our raw humanity and vulnerability. It often serves as a powerful motivator, pushing us to take bold steps and make decisions we might otherwise shy away from. In some cases, finding your own unique path to joy may require you to temporarily remove yourself from familiar surroundings or situations. You might need to embrace solitude, learning to find contentment in your own company rather than pushing loneliness away. . . .

Remember that even in the darkest of times, there are always small moments of beauty, kindness, and wonder waiting to be discovered.

—Gurdeep Pandher, “Sadness May Stay Around, but Seek Joy Every Day”

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