The wild swan doesn’t explain itself.It just moves—quiet,strong,free.In old Celtic stories,swans show up as something more.Not just birds,but signs.Of something deeper.Something sacred.They glide between worlds.Seen and unseen.Spirit and body.Now and not-yet.The Celts...
It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask. It just slips through the cracks. A smell, a song, a street corner, and suddenly — you’re there again. The world tells you: move on, fix it, let it go. But memory isn’t broken. And neither are you. Some things aren’t meant to...
It’s always there. But sometimes, it breaks through in ways that stop you in your tracks. A reflection in a puddle. A beam cutting through a dusty room. Colours spilling from a stained-glass window, turning a stone wall into something alive.Light moves. It bends. It...
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