She was summoned before the sun, awakened by a raven’s cry.
The softness of dawn whispered what the mind had not yet heard:

“It’s not time yet, love.”

In a sacred pause — between the ache to create and the silence of becoming — she remembered that clarity lives not in striving,

but in stillness.

This is her remembering:

of birdsong as a compass,

of misalignment as a message,

of divine timing as the true rhythm of creation.

A soul-note for all who are tired of doing,and long to listen
to the hush before the horizon breaks.