I love the way you write like you're holding the reader in your light. Evocative is the right word to describe it, Cora Lynne. And this.... "I tell myself it’s impossible to hold everything. That no one can. But still, I feel the ache of trying." I feel that ache too.
Beautiful writing. Heart touching. I recently read that time is not a line but a sequence of small moments. To be able to notice and stay in them is a good practice.
I enjoyed reading this so much, you took me through a day with so many beautiful moments, so deliciously relatable to me yet you brought to mind my daughter with her toddler and new baby, life passing in a crazy whirl at the moment , feeling out of control and then at the end of the day, the first chance to breathe, remembering some of the fragments that stay in her mind . Thank you
I love that as you read this it brought to mind your own memory fragments, thank you for sharing what you felt and remembered when you read this. Thank you!
I'm struck by the thought of the ache of trying to hold everything. I feel that too and it's such a heavy weight to carry, but your words bring such lightness and a permission to just notice. So beautiful 💫
It reminded me of high literature. Of journaling that carries more than memory—it carries meaning. Of a quiet philosophy that unfolds in the body before the mind can catch up. I had asked for writing that still matters to the writer—not the algorithm—and what you shared here was everything I meant.
You let fragments stand without needing to resolve them. You honored the blur and let the ache of “almosts” speak for themselves. I felt that. I’ve lived that. So many of my moments surface later, not in the moment itself, but hours—or even years—after they happened. A glance. A shift in light. The way a person didn’t look back. Or did.
I’ve had moments like that heart your daughter placed beside your mug. I’ve missed them in real time and found them again later, still whole somehow. Still waiting to be held. You gave that moment its dignity back. Not by explaining it. By pausing with it.
And the mirror—I know that mirror. For me, it wasn’t glass, but an overheard phrase, a photograph I forgot I took, or the way the light hit the canyon wall in the late afternoon. It made me catch myself. Half in frame. Still enough to notice.
You wrote this with such honesty. No tightening. No crescendo. Just presence. And I felt invited into that presence—not to perform reverence, but to live it. That distinction matters to me.
This wasn’t about nostalgia or mindfulness. It was about truth. And grace, not as softness, but as that moment when you didn’t fix your posture and still let yourself be seen.
Thank you for this. This is visceral and beautifully crafted. You offered more than an essay—you offered a space. And I stayed.
xo Jay
P.S. subscribed, cannot afford to pay as I am living in 380 Euro, but I want to read more by you. Your writing is truly beautiful and unique.
I love the way you write like you're holding the reader in your light. Evocative is the right word to describe it, Cora Lynne. And this.... "I tell myself it’s impossible to hold everything. That no one can. But still, I feel the ache of trying." I feel that ache too.
Blessings and love x
This brings tears. Evocative and beautiful. Thank you.
That means so much I am grateful these words met you today. Thank you 🤎🤎
Beautiful writing. Heart touching. I recently read that time is not a line but a sequence of small moments. To be able to notice and stay in them is a good practice.
I enjoyed reading this so much, you took me through a day with so many beautiful moments, so deliciously relatable to me yet you brought to mind my daughter with her toddler and new baby, life passing in a crazy whirl at the moment , feeling out of control and then at the end of the day, the first chance to breathe, remembering some of the fragments that stay in her mind . Thank you
I love that as you read this it brought to mind your own memory fragments, thank you for sharing what you felt and remembered when you read this. Thank you!
I'm struck by the thought of the ache of trying to hold everything. I feel that too and it's such a heavy weight to carry, but your words bring such lightness and a permission to just notice. So beautiful 💫
This is really lovely, Jennifer! Glad to have found your writing on here.
Thanks for this powerful invitation to catch the magic in the glimpses and fragile moments.
This is beautiful writing, the details you have captured are exquisite 🩵
Stunning. The detail, the noticing, the picture you paint with your words. It's been a privilege to share Ink & Flame with you x
thank you so very much Louise, likewise its been a true gift!!!!
@Jennifer Edewaard,
This one didn’t just land. It entered.
It reminded me of high literature. Of journaling that carries more than memory—it carries meaning. Of a quiet philosophy that unfolds in the body before the mind can catch up. I had asked for writing that still matters to the writer—not the algorithm—and what you shared here was everything I meant.
You let fragments stand without needing to resolve them. You honored the blur and let the ache of “almosts” speak for themselves. I felt that. I’ve lived that. So many of my moments surface later, not in the moment itself, but hours—or even years—after they happened. A glance. A shift in light. The way a person didn’t look back. Or did.
I’ve had moments like that heart your daughter placed beside your mug. I’ve missed them in real time and found them again later, still whole somehow. Still waiting to be held. You gave that moment its dignity back. Not by explaining it. By pausing with it.
And the mirror—I know that mirror. For me, it wasn’t glass, but an overheard phrase, a photograph I forgot I took, or the way the light hit the canyon wall in the late afternoon. It made me catch myself. Half in frame. Still enough to notice.
You wrote this with such honesty. No tightening. No crescendo. Just presence. And I felt invited into that presence—not to perform reverence, but to live it. That distinction matters to me.
This wasn’t about nostalgia or mindfulness. It was about truth. And grace, not as softness, but as that moment when you didn’t fix your posture and still let yourself be seen.
Thank you for this. This is visceral and beautifully crafted. You offered more than an essay—you offered a space. And I stayed.
xo Jay
P.S. subscribed, cannot afford to pay as I am living in 380 Euro, but I want to read more by you. Your writing is truly beautiful and unique.