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