quiet archive
Quiet Archive · Morning Reflections
Morning Reflections
Reflections from my morning walk-about — where life teaches, and the farm helps me listen.
These are the quiet records of what the land shows me — the dailiness of weather, work, and wonder. Not essays, not posts — more like small thresholds of noticing. Fragments of a life in motion, held still just long enough to hear what they’re saying.
Browse the latest reflections below — or wander the archive whenever you need a quiet pause.
If you’d like to pair these reflections with the ideas that shape them, you’re welcome to join me in Conversations — my weekly Reading Journey with the Great Books and other voices.
If these reflections are helping and you’d like more structured one-to-one support as you face your own season of change, you can visit the Coaching with Jo-Anne page.
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Sleeping Through Storms, Living Within Them
Storms test us, reshape us, and strip away what cannot hold. Some storms can be prepared for. Others we must face awake. From bent trees to thorns underfoot, storms reveal what endures and what must be let go.
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Crossroads in Stillness: Hidden Paths and Messengers
At a hidden crossroads in the forest, I found old wires, unseen paths, and a rare Turaco messenger glowing red in the sun. A reminder that stillness reveals what motion cannot — that the most important paths may be waiting, unseen, until we pause.
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The Horse, the Rain, and a Breath That Held Me
It rained at last, and the earth breathed again. Lying forehead to forehead with Aurora, I remembered that peace does not mean the weight is gone — it means returning, again and again, to breath, to body, to what still holds.
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When the Barrels Run Low
Usually all our water troughs are kept full — shared with frogs, deer, and whatever else wanders through. But in the dry stretches, we fill only what’s necessary. Wealth is not about more. It is about gratitude and preservation — and living within the limits of what we cannot control.
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The Rain We Needed
On fear, humility, and gratitude beneath grey skies. This morning the sky was grey and heavy,but the ground still dry,the valley still holding its breath. I thought of the fires of 2017,how fear lingers in us long after the flames.The […]
Thank you for being here.
These notes are shared with care — not as answers, but as wayfinding lights.
When you need to pause again, the quiet will still be here — and so will I.