The debris of daily living piles up, whether or not we let it. It entombs our innocence. Conceals our sense of wonderment in the fractured symbols of shattered expectations and faulty statuses.
But, there's a kind of longing that haunts our memories. Our dreams and our waking. That doesn't stay buried, regardless of our repression, suppression, or willful forgetting. It arises from the wreckage unlooked for and unbidden, lingering namelessly.
It’s neither wistfulness nor nostalgia, it’s something different. Something much more difficult to pinpoint or say.
It's the quiet promise that cuts through the static of all our false pretenses. Something that calls to us in the stillness of making things. That brings us back to joy and peace and playfulness. Something that survives the rubble with softness and subtlety, waiting to be reclaimed. Something that returns to us what we've been missing.
The part of us that still believes in bigger things...