Jumping into Monday while carrying the echo

It’s Monday again. The coffee’s on, the inbox hums, and the calendar has opinions about how this week should go. But underneath all of it—under the errands and workshop prep and half-formed ideas—is a quiet pulse. The kind of heaviness that doesn’t shout.

Grief still lives here, though softer than it used to. It shows up in the shift of seasons, in the rust-colored edge of July giving way to August. There’s something about late summer that feels like a door closing. And when it does, I think about him again. Another season he never got to see. Not dramatically, not even tearfully—but in fragments. A laugh. A habit. A memory. The places he lives now.

And yet, life moves. Pyrography and writing, and even school projects stack up. There are forms to prep and pages to reopen. I’m reworking the workshop signup and reminding myself that creativity is its own momentum. Grief doesn’t get to be the only thing I carry—there’s joy here too. In the smell of charred cedar. In the hope of what others will find in what I have ahead. My prayers for them. That joy can be shared, and spread like wildflowers.

This week is messy already. There’s chaos overhead—logistics, tech snags, ideas that won’t sit still. But underneath that mess is growth. Even if it doesn’t feel clean, it feels alive.

We’re allowed to open doors while still mourning the ones that shut. We can start fresh without pretending everything’s tidy. This is what healing looks like when it’s honest. One burnt edge at a time.