Before the sun rises, I sit at the corner of my couch facing the window.

The darkness outside is vast, with the kind of quiet that only the early morning brings. I reach for my brass lighter—a work of art, adorned with etched symbols of eyeballs, mushrooms, hands, stars, crystal balls, and a seven-pointed star. It feels heavy, grounding in my hand.

With a flick, the flame catches and I light the candle sitting on my windowsill. Its glow fills the room softly, joining the faint green LED lights strung around my apartment. They cast a quiet magic across the space, like a heartbeat just beneath the surface of everything.

I glance outside into the redwood forest. The towering trees, dark and mysterious, feel like sentinels guarding this little moment of peace. I open the door and let Scooter out onto the patio. He explores the night with his usual feline curiosity, padding quietly in the shadows while I turn back to my stillness.

My living room is dark, except for the flicker of the candle. I look toward my bedroom, where galaxies swirl on the ceiling, cast by a projector from Target. It’s a small, almost silly thing, but it has transformed my space into something otherworldly. On one wall a collection of Buddhas sits next to sacred geometry—the Metatron’s cube, the cycles of the moon, and the Tree of Life. Nearby, a basket of tarot cards waits patiently.

This is my sanctuary. It is both an outer and inner reflection of who I’ve become. The LED lights, the incense, the crystal grids, the subtle hum of intention in every corner—they all remind me that I have crafted this space as an honest mirror of my internal world. That’s one of the greatest gifts of living alone: knowing myself well enough to surround myself with what feels like me.

Some mornings, I can’t believe it. I look around and awe overtakes me. I made this. I sustain this. After nearly a year here, I’m still moved by the silence. Not just the absence of sound but the presence of stillness. This is the longest I’ve ever sat with myself without running to someone else, something else—a new relationship, a new hobby, a new way to drown out the quiet hum of my own inner voice.

2024 was the year I stopped running. I began asking “Why?” Why do I run from silence? Why do I fill my life with noise when the soft space inside me holds so much wisdom?

These questions brought me to the edge of myself. They brought me to a candlelit corner of my couch, to dream journaling, to daily practices of remembering. My mornings became a tide—moments of deep gratitude rolling in, moments of sorrow or longing rolling out.

But something has shifted. The tides are no longer crashing waves that toss me into suffering or ecstasy. They are gentle now. Rhythmic. The highs and lows are less sharp, less defining.

Sitting here in the quiet, I think about the grid I’ve seen in dreams. A lattice of connection stretching infinitely across existence, each point a human heart, a soul. Each of us is a node, pumping energy into this grid with our choices, our presence, our practices. Every morning, when I light my candle, I imagine this grid. I see the light of my intention flowing outward, touching others, strengthening the connections between us.

This daily work isn’t just for me. It ripples outward, feeding the collective with love, gratitude, and integrity. Each small act—lighting the candle, writing down a dream, sitting in the stillness—pumps life into this shared web of being. The grid grows stronger, brighter, as I grow steadier within myself.

I wasn’t always steady. Earlier this year, I sank so deeply into despair I thought I might drown. It was a dark time, so heavy I could barely breathe. And yet, in that darkness, I surrendered. I stopped fighting the tide. I let go of the struggle.

And in that surrender, I found a miracle: I didn’t drown. I floated.

The silence I once feared became my refuge. The stillness became my teacher. I rested there, long enough to regain my strength, long enough to swim back to dry land. Now, I can stand on the shore, looking out at the vast ocean of life, and I don’t feel afraid anymore.

I don’t know where I’ll swim next. My trajectory isn’t clear, but I trust myself. I trust the practices that brought me here: the candle, the journaling, the quiet listening. These rituals remind me that within me burns a pillar of light, a constant source of hope and love.

I imagine that light as part of the grid, connecting to others. When I light my candle, I light theirs too. When I sit with my emotions instead of running from them, I strengthen the entire web of connection. This isn’t just my work—it’s ours.

Each morning is an invitation: to be present, to create beauty, to offer myself as a point of light on this vast lattice of life. Every time I choose to show up—whether in joy or sorrow, gratitude or grief—I remember that my presence matters. Your presence matters.

The candle burns softly, a reminder of the steady, unyielding light within us all. A light that doesn’t extinguish, even in the darkest times. A light that connects us, that strengthens the grid, that whispers to us each morning:

You are here. And that is enough.

May we all carry that light with us as we step into the day.

~