If God Penned in Sunlight

 Notes From the Hollow Bone | Entry Thirty-four

 If God penned letters in sunlight,
this one would arrive the way dawn does—
quiet at first, slipping between the ribs of the world
without asking permission,
carrying a warmth that knows exactly
where you’ve grown quiet.

The letter would read…

 Look here.
Even the ghost forest radiates
when seen at the right angle.
You call these branches bare,
but I call them honest—
nothing extra, nothing pretending,
nothing performing a season
that isn’t meant for them.

 You think you’ve lost your way
because everything feels transparent now—
but transparency is not emptiness.

 It is clarity.
It is readiness.
It is the place where even muted light
finally knows where to land.

 You don’t have to grip this moment
as if it might crumble.
It won’t.

 What is meant for you has never depended on your force—
only your openness.

 And then the sunlight would soften
into that amber seam between day and night,
resting itself on the edges of every branch,
as if underlining its last line…

 You are not meant to know your destination
before you begin.
Only to trust the One
who keeps writing your story
in colors you haven’t learned to name.

 And in the hush that follows, you would feel it—
that subtle, reverent tug
toward whatever is next.
Not a command.
Not a warning.
A presence. A promise.

 A letter from God written in light
on the bones of a forest
that refuses to fear winter—
a reminder that you, too,
can let the sun tell you
where to stand next.

 — With Grace & Ink,
Mai