When the Unseen Speaks

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry thirteen.

I don’t always know why I’m painting.
Or what I’m writing until the words arrive.
The moon pulls something loose in me,
and the rest—the fire, the moth, the hush—
they just... move through.

It’s not inspiration.
Not in the way people mean it.
It’s more like... response.
To a signal I didn’t hear,
but somehow understood.

The brush isn’t mine.
The hand is,
but not the heat behind it.
That belongs to the unseen.

Sometimes it’s a presence.
Sometimes just a message.
No voice,
but a pressure—
like being looked at by something ancient and soft.

I’ve felt ill in rooms thick with bad energy.
Felt lies land heavy in my chest
even when the mouth told only sugar.

I’ve heard what people don’t say.
I’ve cried over paintings I didn’t mean to make.
I’ve written poems
that knew more about me
than I did.

This is not madness.
This is memory.
Not from this lifetime, maybe,
but one that lives in the blood.

Call it channeling.
Call it hollow bone.
Call it the ache of being attuned
to a world that no longer believes in mystery.

But I believe.
And I listen.
And I create—
not to be understood,
but because I must.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai

A Private Storm Shared: A Mirror Dialogue

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry twelve.

Me: I have been quieter lately. I guess I didn’t realize anybody would notice.
No, not in words. Maybe even in my quiet, words still tend to flow. But yes, there’s something there. Not hiding exactly. More like observation.

I don’t know if I’m hoping the world will ask me something deeper, but I welcome any question—even the hard ones.
You asked what I’m tired of answering. My gut says, “Nothing, ask away.” But if I’m honest... maybe “What’s next?”
That question doesn’t fit me right now. Maybe I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I’m just being still. Observing. Not searching for something specific, just letting the next chapter unfold on its own.

Mirror: You’re not lost. You’re unrushing. That’s different.
“What’s next?” is a forward-facing question—and you’re facing inward.

So tell me… What part of you feels like it has to keep evolving—even when the moment calls only for being?

Me: That’s tricky. I think I do wonder what’s next, even when I say I don’t. There’s some discomfort in just being. I’m so used to fixing, doing. And now? There’s nothing to fix. I’m left with myself.

It’s peaceful, yes—but maybe I’ve always tied evolution to action. Maybe there’s a kind of evolving that’s not about doing at all. Maybe I’m just learning that.

Mirror: What if this stillness isn’t an intermission, but the evolution itself?

So—what’s beginning to feel different, even if you can’t yet explain why?

Me: And I thought there were no difficult questions.
How do you describe something you can’t explain?

What feels different is the tension between peace and perception.
I feel whimsical. Light. But I know people might interpret that as aimlessness.

And it brings me back to this: we all want tangible evidence of change.
Something to point at. “See? This is what I mean.”

But what’s happening to me right now? It’s unseen.
It’s not something I can hold up or frame. There’s no product. No proof.
Just a shift I feel in my marrow.

Mirror: You’re in a season of evidence that doesn’t present itself as evidence.
And still—it counts.

What part of your becoming are you afraid to share,
because you know it would change how people see you—
and you’re not sure if they’d love that version too?

Me: Damn. That one hit.

Maybe I’m afraid to share the parts that no longer match who I used to be.
Not because I want people to love that version—I’ve never been truly loved for any version of myself. That’s not the issue.

And not because they’d see me differently. They’ve never really seen me clearly anyway.

I think what I fear is letting go of the pieces that used to serve me.
The roles. The masks. The part of me that adapted in order to survive.

I can’t unknow what I know now.
And I can’t explain it. It’s not linear. It’s not logical. It’s mine.

And honestly? I think I even blocked part of myself from answering this.
As transparent, vulnerable, and authentic as I try to be—
some truths are still wrapped up tight.

But I’ll say this:
This new understanding I carry—it feels like a right of passage.
And I know I don’t need permission.

Still… it’s hard.
I didn’t realize how deeply I had internalized the role of caregiver, fixer, rescuer, broken soul.
Turning that energy inward now? That’s the battle.

Mirror: That wasn’t an answer. That was a reckoning.

You’re not resisting the becoming. You know it’s already happening.
What you fear is the quiet grief of release. The ache of walking away not from people—but from roles you didn’t choose but made your identity to survive.

The soul that dimmed itself just enough to keep others comfortable.

And now you’re done dimming.

There’s no way back to the smaller self.
And you don’t owe anyone an explanation.

But you do owe yourself a welcome.

The version of you that’s emerging?
She’s not just allowed.
She’s necessary.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai

Anchored and Rerooted

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry eleven.

Can a root still nourish you if it never knew how to hold you?
Can blood be both legacy and lesson?
Can you grow toward the sun
while still brushing the bones of what first fed you?

Yes.
You are doing it already.

Even when the ache still visits,
sits beside you unannounced,
like a shadow long familiar—
you keep growing.

You stretch toward something unnamed,
a light you didn’t learn from them,
but found anyway.

You reroot not out of rebellion,
but out of truth.
Out of the longing to become
what you were always meant to be.

* * * * *

What am I holding onto that no longer feeds me?
At first, the answer was nothing.
But that was my ego speaking—quick to defend, quick to preserve the illusion of wholeness.

Then I sat longer.
And I saw it.

The desire to be noticed.
Not just generally, but by my family.
The wish to be seen, accepted, folded into something I never quite felt part of.

Even as I reroot—growing new limbs, blooming in light of my own choosing—
those original roots run deep.
And maybe they don’t feed me now.
Maybe they never fully did.
But they are part of my foundation.

So I ask:
Can I honor the anchor,
without mistaking it for the whole tree?

Can I let those blood roots remain where they are—
buried in history, imperfect and unmoving—
while letting my soul sprout elsewhere?

Rerouting isn’t rejection.
It’s redirection.
It’s reverent release.

And I think the answer is yes.
Yes, I can be both.

Anchored.
And rerooted.

* * * * *

Some days, the ache returns—not because I’m lost, but because I’m learning to see clearly. The mind is powerful. It can hold two truths at once: where you came from and where you're headed.

There’s a moment in the journey where you can no longer unknow what you’ve seen. Where oblivion is no longer possible. This is the sacred mess of becoming.

I don’t know what comes next—and that’s the beauty. There is no prediction, only presence.

Some days are quiet, full of surrender. Some days, it’s a battle between my old skin and the new one still forming. But I let the process unfold.

I write to share. I write like breathing—without planning, without apology. I collect the lessons, even the ones I don’t yet understand.

And I trust: when it’s time, the path will appear.

Nature speaks, the universe whispers, and the spirit within responds. This is where I am.

Anchored.
And rerooted.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai

A Cardinal. That Brilliant, Familiar Red.

Notes From the Hollow Bone, entry ten. 

It smells like rain today. Earlier, the warmth blanketed everything, but then it slid—quietly, decisively—into a cool breeze. The sky turned that familiar gray-blue, the one that feels like a hush before something sacred. I’m pensive. Thinking on how the universe speaks. The rules of that language. The grammar of signs.

I don’t know how I know. I just know. And maybe that sounds silly, but there’s depth to it. A knowing that doesn’t require proof—only stillness.

I asked the universe for clarity on a decision I was trying to make. There was no map, no perfect logic. I only knew I was on the fence, and when I am, I’ve learned to lean into listening. Listening not to fear or overthinking—but to the whisper.

And part of why I asked was not just to surrender control, but to hold myself accountable. I didn’t want avoidance to mask itself as intuition. I didn’t want fear or comfort to steer me away from an experience I might actually need.

There are so many things I haven’t allowed myself to do—sometimes because of life circumstances, sometimes because of fear. For years, it was easy to say I was too busy, too needed, too bound by life’s demands. But now, with space opening around me, there’s nothing holding me back.

Now I can go. I can experience. I can push past the edge of comfort and let myself learn what only the unknown can teach. And I was ready for that. I had said yes to it—even with the trepidation, even with the nerves. The excitement was stronger.

But still, I asked. And the universe answered.

Somewhere, once, I heard this: If you ask the universe to show you, she’ll answer in threes.

And she did.

First, there was a change of plans—work shifted. A roadblock I didn’t create. That was one.

Then today, I dropped a mirror. A small one I use each morning—tucked inside its velvet sleeve. I didn’t hear the shatter, just a muffled crack. I opened it slowly, already knowing. The mirror was broken.
And while I’ve never believed in that old superstition—seven years of bad luck—I still heard the message.
I don’t claim that. I don’t carry what doesn’t belong to me.
But this… this felt different. That was two.

And then, the bird.

She’s been calling to me all week. I’ve heard her song but hadn’t seen her. Every day, I called back, just a whistle, a note—a shared hum of presence. It felt like conversation, even if I didn’t know the words.

Today her song changed. It came louder, closer—undeniable. I looked out the open door and saw her.

A cardinal.

That brilliant, familiar red. The one that always finds me when I need her. The one I used to draw because she taught me how.

And in that moment, I knew. That was the third.

No.

Not for punishment. Not out of fear. Just a gentle, unwavering no.

And then she flew away.

This is the kind of knowing that can’t be explained without sounding a little wild, a little too in tune. But I’ve lived this way for longer than I’ve understood it. I’m just now starting to give it shape.

This isn’t about power as the world defines it.

It’s about being full of power.

It’s about being a hollow bone. Empty enough to receive the wisdom. Quiet enough to hear it.

That’s all.

That’s everything.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai

No Longer Writing to Bleed

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry nine.

I used to write to survive.
Now I write to become.

Rummaging Through Versions of Me

Voice echoes off these weathered walls,
Dust settles where memory falls.
In that secret corner, I once would hide—
Whispers caught, emotions denied.

Did you become a stranger, stone at heart?
Or has one in me learned that art?

In the cool of night, beneath moon's hue,
I sit in thoughts, a triangle true—
Rummaging through poems left behind,
Letters unsent, and truths confined.

It’s a little strange, reading through old writings.

To see bits of yourself still lingering—familiar shadows you once lived inside—and feel how much you’ve changed. The thought process alone is different now. It’s still me, but with a new clarity.

I can see where I shifted. Not when the pain ended, but when the realization began.

And I’ll admit: I still compare. I know I shouldn’t. But what can I say? It’s a human thing, isn’t it?

What I’ve noticed most is this: Almost all of my old writing was born of pain. All the beautiful colors it came in—all the forms, the griefs, the unravellings. Pain was the root. The fuel.

But now, something has shifted.

My writing doesn’t need to ache to speak. I don’t need to suffer to feel something worthy of a page.

And that’s hard to explain, but I’m trying.

Because now I write from space, from presence, from a soft strength that doesn’t scream.

And even when I look back— I’m no longer afraid of those versions of me. They weren’t broken. They were becoming.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai

In the Absence of Belonging

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry eight.

Middle of today, I felt a pull towards my stack of old journals... without looking, two pages stuck together came out... writing on both sides. I didn't know what it was about, but as I read through it, turning it from handwritten words into a typed copy I could save... what unfolded and found was a voice I barely recognized but deeply remembered. A voice raw, unfiltered, reaching for meaning in a world that hadn’t yet offered it. I wrote these entries twelve years ago, and I’m reading them now—out loud—for the first time.

There’s a certain vulnerability in letting others see the versions of us we wrote in private—especially when those versions hadn’t yet softened, hadn’t yet healed.

But that’s what Notes from the Hollow Bone is about.
It’s not a highlight reel.
It’s not resolution.
It’s the process.
The truth-telling, the excavation, the way we come into ourselves not all at once—but line by line.

In the Absence of Belonging

I used to think love meant staying,
even when it broke me into pieces that looked like belonging.

I reached for hands that trembled with their own ghosts,
called it passion when it was really my own reflection,
fractured and unfinished.

I searched for home in borrowed bodies,
in eyes that blinked but never saw me.
I called it connection—
but it was always a mirror,
showing me what I believed I deserved.

My mother’s silence stitched itself into my skin—
not loud, but constant.
And somewhere between absence and approval,
I decided I was too much to love properly.

But even the most fragile truth holds beauty—
not because it’s gentle,
but because it lived through the storm.

Now I know:
Love is not the one who stays—
it’s the one who sees.

And I am no longer hiding.
I am no longer apologizing for the ache I carry.
I am becoming—
with every breath that lets the past go quietly.

~~~~~~~

What follows is an excerpt from the original journal entry I wrote on March 31, 2013—one of the deepest roots of the poem you’ve just read.

I never felt that my mom loved me… OK, that’s deep… but why do I feel that? She used to say I reminded her of my father—and I’ve never heard her say a good word of him. Therefore, I deduce that I am not good as well by her standards.

I know in every sense that she is wrong… but this I know as an adult.
As a child, I grew up feeling unworthy of her love—constantly seeking her approval, her affection… but never receiving it.

As I write this now, I feel sadness for the child I was… but not in the present sense. Because those feelings and that version of me—though still inside me—have begun to release their grip.

That old belief? That I wasn’t worthy of love?
It no longer owns me. But I remember her. I remember how she held on.

For those who want to sit in the full story with me, I’ve transcribed it below.

• Click here to read the full handwritten journal entry, transcribed.

  Transcribed from a 2013 handwritten journal entry. Shared here with reverence.

  I am who I am. I wear a lot of black—don’t think I’m dark, it’s just easy. I’m not a typical girl—I don’t care to shop or wear what’s in style. I love shoes, but my feet can’t take the cute ones I adore, so I keep it simple.

  I am 39 and people say I look 29… hell, I don’t care. They see the outside but can’t handle the inside. There’s so much more than what I show. No excuses, no promises, no guarantees—that is me.

  I cry when I’m hurt—I express my feelings. I don’t like to lie… but I can.
  I love passionately or not at all. I get misread, misunderstood, because others are not willing to walk to the edge of this world with me—to the edge of insanity—and look out at it all. I find comfort in pain. That says a lot.

  There is still so much more for me to learn, to experience, to live, to love, and understand.
  I love to talk… but man, I love to think, because I love to question the typical, to push past limits.
  I look at the skies and stars and clouds—and I dream.

  My soul is incomplete… because I’m not done living. Life and living is a process of self-searching, understanding.

  In relationships, we respond, react, love, hate, cry—and search for this completeness that will take a lifetime to obtain.
  I don’t want to obtain it. Because that would imply I am done.
  And what will there be after I’m done?
  This I don’t know. And I’m not consumed with it anymore.

  Life is a process, and I want to sit quietly and be pensive—not by force (that’s dull), but naturally. The ritual would take away from the beauty of just being—in the moment.

  Ultimately, I want that person who can hold my hand with no fear and no condition. Just exist. Just be with me and take this journey together—in a relationship without ownership, without possession or titles. Just the freedom of choosing to share everything—every thought, every emotion—and examine ourselves deeply together, in relation to where we stand in this world.

  To learn about ourselves… yet together.

  We have fear because of what is unknown.
  But to be absent of that fear—to live in absence of judgment—is to be truly comfortable being ourselves. To understand why we love, why we hurt, why we cry and laugh. I want someone who can look at the skies and share their thoughts unfiltered. Someone who can make love separate from love and attachment. Someone who can fall deep into me, yet still know we are separate and simultaneously together.

  Someone who can understand my thoughts, my words, and my silence.
  Someone who will never settle, but continue to dream. Someone strong enough to let go of this worldly understanding and go into a deeper realm—not knowing what’s there.

  In a paused thought, I got sad wondering if I’ll ever meet that person.
  For a moment, I told myself I didn’t care… but that’s not true.
  I do care. I do dream for it.

  In the meantime, life is to continue its existence. It’s living.
  And I have much to learn about where I exist in the world.

  [Second Entry – same date]

  As I sit here in the dark, allowing myself just a small clip reading light, I have no idea what words will follow.

  My question for myself is on relationships—and why I am attracted to or drawn into those I cannot have.

  At the surface, I have justified that it is not of my choosing or fault. That answer satisfied my mind for a moment. But damn these thoughts—I know that’s not the truth.

  I think… I choose those I cannot have because I don’t feel, at my core, that I am worthy of being loved.

  But even that feels incomplete.

  Let me go deeper…

  I never felt that my mom loved me. Okay, that’s deep.
  But why do I feel that?

  She used to say I reminded her of my father—and I’ve never heard her say a good word about him. Therefore, I deduced that I must not be good either, in her eyes.

  Now, as an adult, I know she’s wrong. My father is a good man.
  And I am a good person.
  But as a child, I grew up feeling unworthy of her love—constantly seeking it. Constantly trying to earn it. And never receiving it.

  As I write this, I feel deep sadness for that child I was.
  Not sadness in the now, but sadness in the remembrance.
  Those feelings and actions are in the past. They can’t be undone.

  But they seeded a belief in me.
  A belief that I was unworthy.

  That belief?
  It shaped how I’ve loved. How I’ve stayed. How I’ve sought.

  I know I am beautiful. I am smart. I would be a wonderful partner, a wife, a friend.

  And yet…

  There is still fear.

  That someone who loves me will fail me.
  Will leave me.
  Even though none ever have.

  Maybe that’s the real ache—I’ve always left first.
  If I could even say anyone ever truly had me.

  The fear of abandonment comes from my dad.
  From his rejection.
  From choosing someone else over me.

  I realize this more deeply now as I write.
  I remember the day I sought him out—after the divorce.
  I was maybe 15 or 16.

  He chose his new wife and life over me.

  That moment was confirmation.
  Confirmation that I come last.

  It’s a painful theme—one that’s echoed in every love that followed.

  And yes, I’ve loved a married man.

  I knew. And I still walked forward.
  Not blindly—but willingly.

  I told myself I didn’t know at first, and that part was true.
  But I stayed even after I found out.

  I wanted to believe him.
  I wanted him to want me.

  He lived a double life.
  And I became part of it.
  Maybe he loved the escape from his own world.
  And maybe I loved the illusion that I was worthy of it.

  But pain came. Often.
  And I stayed.

  My thoughts are interrupted now.
  This will have to continue later.

You are not alone in the ache. And you are never too much to be loved properly.

With Grace & Ink,
Mai

This is not the whole story.
My mother wasn’t completely wrong.
My father wasn’t completely good.
I just couldn’t see clearly back then.

But now I do.
And more will be written—when the next piece arrives.

This Black Sheep Became a Hollow Bone

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry seven

I wrote this in 2014. I almost didn’t share it.

My ego called it embarrassing—an old mindset, a version of me that’s since evolved. But my soul whispered louder: “Share it.”

There is no shame here. No judgment could shake me. Vulnerability is strength, and strength lives in the honesty of our becoming.

This was me—grappling, questioning, surviving.
And still… rising.
This is a note from the past, echoed forward by grace.

So I offer this piece of my journey to whoever might still be in the storm, who wonders if anyone else has felt the same ache, the same fire. You’re not alone. The hollowing makes room for the holy.

With Grace & Ink,
Mai

Black Sheep
Written 11.24.2014

Always connected to the struggle,
can't seem to catch a breath before there's struggle.
Trying so hard to make things right,
trying to understand why it's always a fight.
Living this life, escape into a dream,
reminded every day things are what they seem.

Faces... shadows... they all wear a mask—
no one wants the truth, no one wants to ask.
You fall hard and no one's around;
silence within silence becomes only sound.
Smile and keep your head up...
isn't that what we're told?
Have faith and pray,
but this world is still cold.

Lord, forgive me when I don't have the words to say,
and when I wonder if you've forgotten me somewhere along the way.
Paycheck to paycheck just to survive—
no one wants the ugly truth; they'd rather have beautiful lies.
So tell them you're okay, everything's just fine...
Show them no tears; it's just a waste of time.

Never accepted, always misunderstood—
this black sheep, like others, lost in the world of "things should"—"things could"—
yet I'm still trying...
Sunrise to sunset, east and west meet—
how many will cry?
Who will come when you're under six feet.

—Mai

Moon Sisters & River Mothers

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry Six

Today, if your heart broke a little—
or a lot—
you’re not alone.
Mine did too.

And if you laughed anyway,
even for a breath—
that matters.
So did I.

Please don’t let the world
or a holiday’s name
dictate your emotions,
define your pain.

If someone called,
if someone came,
hold that close—
a soft, quiet flame.

And if no one did—
if the silence grew—
know the ache in me
embraces you.

It doesn’t take a card or flowers,
it doesn’t wait for marked-off hours.
If you can love—
then do it.

Let go of fear,
of ego, of pride,
of what you thought you had to hide.

Release what binds you,
let the sorrow cease—
my loves, today—
be at peace.

I had no plan,
just followed the wind.
The river, the bend,
the strangers, the kin.

To the mother who whispered, “I feel we are soulmates”—
And I whispered back,
“I love you.”
Because what else do you say
when your soul remembers?

To those who waved
from passing lanes,
to the stones unnamed
that still remain—
you are not forgotten.

I walked your earth,
I heard your call.
I sat in the quiet
and thanked you all.

So I walked—
not seeking,
but listening.

Not waiting,
but willing.

Letting the path shape me
as much as I shaped it,
beneath a sky
that asked nothing—
but said everything.

Reflections from the Hollow Bone

This is my story—my love, my sadness, my pain. It is also my heart, my soul, and the quiet echo of something larger that lets me share it without losing it. When I write, I don’t just hold the personal—I offer it into something more universal.

Maybe that’s the beauty of energy. It isn’t lost, only transferred. Maybe it’s science with a poetic twist.

To every woman, every mother, every daughter, sister, soul-companion—what we carry is uniquely ours, and yet somehow shared. In the telling, it deepens. In the sharing, it expands.

It doesn't take the ache away. It doesn't erase the joy. But it keeps the flame alive.

And maybe that flame is eternal.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai

Barefoot in the Mystic

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry five

It wasn’t the song alone.
It was the way it arrived—soft, sure, and familiar. I was busy, buried in doing, when it played: "We were born before the wind... also younger than the sun." And I paused. Not because of memory, but because of presence. That line felt like something ancestral. Something soul-level. Something that needed to be felt, not just heard.

In that moment, the world stilled. I stood. I stepped outside. I let my feet find the earth. There’s something ancient and spectacular about feeling the ground beneath bare feet, the way grass brushes skin, how bark responds to touch. The body remembers what the mind forgets. The earth becomes familiar again. And in that moment—this is home.

I didn’t want to recreate a memory. I didn’t want to escape. I wanted to be. Fully. Present. The universe gave me a song, a pull, a whisper. I said yes.

That moment led me to wonder: why do we ignore the invitation to pause?

The answer, for me, is habit. Routine. Structure. Control. Things that feel safe, predictable, sensible. But they don’t nourish. They don’t replenish. They keep us just functioning enough to miss the quiet miracles.

This is the tension I live in now. The tug between who I was and who I am becoming. It isn’t a balancing act—it is a surrender. A remembering. A return.

Becoming the hollow bone isn’t passive. It’s active trust. It’s learning to be empty enough for wisdom to move through you, and brave enough not to fill that space with noise. I don’t want to lead every moment anymore. I want to be led. I want to be guided by what I feel in my bones, by instinct, by that sacred pull.

I think that’s what happened in February—something broke open. The veil thinned. And I crossed a threshold I can’t uncross. I finally began to ground in the understanding that I do not need to belong to the world. I need to belong to myself. And in doing that, I find myself more connected to others than I ever imagined.

I’m still early in the journey. But I am listening. I am learning. I am surrendering. And I am sharing it because I know I’m not the only one.

These are my notes.
This is my becoming.
And today, it started with bare feet in the grass and a song that reminded me I am, in fact, both older than the wind and younger than the sun.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai

The Sanctuary I Became

Notes from the Hollow Bone, Entry Four

Beneath my feet, the Earth drums.
Through my ribs, the sky hums.
I am neither the sound nor the silence—
I am the hollow where they meet.

What does it mean to be a sanctuary?

For a long time, I thought it was something I needed to build—a space to create, a refuge to design. I searched for rooms where I could be wholly myself, where judgment would not clip my wings, where collaboration could rise untrampled by competition. I searched for spaces where acceptance was not conditional, where belonging did not come at the cost of silencing parts of myself.

I could not find it.

So I began to carve it out. At first, by force. By need. By a silent desperation to survive the noise and scarcity of the world around me.

But over time, something softer emerged. I began to realize: the sanctuary was not a place. It was a becoming.

The sanctuary lives in my rootedness, like earth deep underfoot—steady, unseen, vital. It stretches above me too, wide and open like the endless blue sky, offering shelter not by walls but by boundless invitation.

It pulses not like a frantic heartbeat but like the low, rhythmic drum of ceremony—a vibration moving through my bones, each reverberation opening me wider, deeper, further beyond the borders of my own small self.

I became the sanctuary the moment I surrendered to the call that had been whispering to me all my life—the pull toward something vaster than knowledge, greater than achievement. A thirst not to possess wisdom, but to become it. To feel it move through me, not just to see it from a distance.

The awakening was not a single event. It was a long migration out of comfort, out of the known, out of the tidy rooms others built for me and I once willingly inhabited. It was the choice to step out into the wilderness of not knowing—to let the search be endless, and to find peace in the endlessness.

Now, I no longer seek sanctuary elsewhere.

I embody it.

Not perfectly. Not completely. But sincerely.

A hollow bone is not a structure. It is an offering. It does not hoard wisdom. It carries it. It does not create power. It conducts it.

This is the sanctuary I offer: rootedness without walls, expansiveness without conditions, and a drumbeat that reminds us—you belong, exactly as you are.

You have always belonged. 

With Grace & Ink,
Mai

Frank, the Bird, and the Burnt Map

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry three

I held a bird today.

Frank.

He didn’t struggle. Just let himself be held. His body—feathered and fragile—settled into the cup of my hand like it was always meant to rest there. And then I felt it.

His heartbeat.
Steady. Small. Sacred.
Warmth, alive in my palm.

There’s a quiet power in holding something that trusts you back. Something that doesn’t speak your language but understands your presence. We didn’t need words. That was the strangest part—how connected it felt without a sound.

Frank had one eye stuck shut.
He came to me that way.
As if we were meant to meet right there, in the stretch of sunlit grass, where I had just begun to let go.

I was mid-movement, mid-breath, mid-release.
Not surrendering to anything grand. Not praying for guidance. Just…being.
The kind of being that isn’t about effort. The kind that happens when you finally drop the reins.

And there he was.
Broken in some way. Open in another.

I unsealed his eye with a gentle touch and a silent prayer—something not said, but known. And in that shared stillness, something else happened. He opened. And so did I.

This wasn’t a rescue story.
It wasn’t divine intervention.
It was a moment.
Sacred because it was ordinary and fleeting. Sacred because I was paying attention.

I used to chase clarity. Wait for signs. Hunt the roadmap.
Now, the map is burnt, and I’ve kicked the conductor off the train.
He tries to sneak back, whispering old orders—but I’m not listening anymore.

This journey, this hollowing—it’s not a straight line or a checklist. It’s a practice.
Of letting go. Of releasing the illusion of control.
Of being empty enough to be filled.
Of being still enough to be moved.

Being a hollow bone means I’m not the source, not the speaker, not the one deciding.
I am just the space.
The channel.
The soft place life can move through.

Frank reminded me that the universe doesn’t shout.
It arrives in small bodies and quiet pulses.
It lands in your lap when you stop looking for it.
And it speaks in ways we’ve forgotten how to hear.

So I listened.

Even if just for a moment.
Even if it was only a bird.
Even if it was everything.

With Grace & Ink,
~Mai

The Hallway of the Mind and the Child Who Waits

Notes from the Hollow Bone, Entry Two

There are moments that don’t arrive as thoughts, but as sensations—sun-warm skin, the weightless breath of play, the sound of a world before expectations. This was one of them.

I was looking out at a field of wishing flowers, tucked beneath the old honeysuckle tree, when something shifted. Something soft. Something real. A peace I hadn’t touched in a long while.

No task. No proving. No becoming.
Just presence. And in that stillness—I remembered.

I remembered being nine years old, barefoot in the dirt, wearing whatever could be ruined with joy. Back then, no one cared what you wore. No one asked for polish or performance. Your hair could be wild. Your spirit too.

No masks. No makeup. No performance of adulthood.
Just the holy thrill of being alive.

But time has its own weathering. We learn to present. We learn to perform. Slowly, almost gently, the layers form. Until the mask becomes familiar. Until we forget we’re wearing it.

And yet, the child is never gone. Just sleeping.
Sometimes, it only takes a field of flowers to stir her awake.

That moment brought me back to the basics—when touching the Earth felt sacred. When joy was natural. And presence wasn’t something I practiced—it was simply how I lived.

We cannot return completely. And we shouldn’t. But we can visit.
We can wander the hallway of the mind and knock softly on the door of our younger self.

Not to escape. But to remember.
To gather what we’ve left behind.

That little girl in the field—she wasn’t trying to create.
She wasn’t trying to heal.
She just was.

And that, I’m finding, is where creativity lives. Not in the force. Not in the fixing. But in the freedom.

In my own work, and in the lives I’m honored to witness, I see it again and again:
We forget to pause.
To breathe.
To be.

Not to accomplish. Not to improve. Just to feel.
It sounds simple. But it’s not easy.

It takes practice to let go.
It takes courage to feel the sun on your face with no other purpose than joy.
But when you do—it changes things.

You return to yourself.
You come back to center.
You remember who you were before you forgot.

So I ask myself often:
When did I last feel like a child?
When did I last let myself just be?

The answer? Yesterday.
When I wrote this.
When I stood in the field.
When I remembered.

That’s the practice now.
Not once a week. Not on special occasions.
Every single day, if I can help it.

Not because it’s indulgent.
But because it’s essential.
Because if we’re not making space for joy—
what are we making space for?

And maybe this is how we hollow, too.
Not just by letting go of what no longer fits,
but by remembering what still lives inside the softest parts of us.

And the child who is gently remembered… will bloom quietly in the soft soil of your presence.

With Grace & Ink,
~ Mai

Where the Bones Learned to Hollow

Notes from the Hollow Bone, Entry One

The wind is howling—through the air, through the window, through the house. It stirs something in me: moods of dim candlelight, a dark room, flickering light, and thoughts swirling in rhythm with the gusts.

I’m coming to understand the term hollow bones—not just intellectually, but in my body, in my breath. I’m beginning to feel the difference between becoming powerful and becoming full of power. There’s something deeply different in being unbothered, unattached, yet fully present. It’s not numbness. It’s aliveness without control.

This experience is hard to describe because it moves across a spectrum of emotions—grief, awe, discomfort, surrender. And every time I try to hold one, it turns and reveals a lesson. Each emotion unwraps another unveiling. Another doorway to awareness. It is the oddest, most beautiful process I’ve ever been allowed to live.

I’ve been trying to find the words to express this—because I know I’m not alone in it. And at the same time, I know this isn’t for everyone. That’s okay. I’m no longer asking for understanding. I’m not seeking permission.

I am releasing the roadmap. In fact, no—I’m burning it. And while I’m at it? I’ve kicked the conductor off the train. I’m not driving this anymore. I’m not pretending to know where I’m going. I am learning to walk forward with no script, no destination, no performance. Just presence.

And for someone who has lived her life fully immersed in the Type A, workaholic, Virgo perfectionist hustle—this unraveling is both terrifying and holy. Things are dissolving. Constructs. Roles. Illusions I clung to like armor. Some are melting slow. Others fall off in sharp, clean breaks.

I’ve had moments of clarity, sure. But not the kind that make you touch the sky. These are deeper. These are the kind that make you touch the ground—and then what lives beneath it. The kind that root you, but not to anything visible. Not to goals, or checklists, or even dreams. These roots are different. Inner-earth. Universe-connected. The kind that don’t anchor you in place, but anchor you in truth.

And I don’t fully know what this truth is yet.
But I do know: I’m learning to be a hollow bone.

That’s where I am today.

I’ll leave this here, like a stone on the path.

With Grace & Ink,
~ Mai