There he stood, again.
Arms crossed, volcano rumbling under his chest, the “No!” written all over his body.
My son.
But not just my son—my mirror.
He was stuck in a loop. I saw it.
Felt it.
Knew it.
But I didn’t know how to reach him.
He was fighting over an egg.
I was fighting the moment.
And somewhere in that small domestic swirl,
I saw it.
He wasn’t the one circling.
I was.
I had walked this loop a thousand times.
Postpone.
Distract.
Doubt the moment.
Make tea.
Do the laundry.
Feel a hum…
Forget the hum.
Think I’ll return later.
Later.
Later.
Later, I’ll write.
Later, I’ll create.
Later, I’ll be ready.
But “later” was a promise the loop never planned to keep.
And there was Daniel, showing it to me like a signpost with wild hair and stubborn eyes.
And I love him for it.
Because in that moment, I didn’t need him to change.
I needed to see.
See that I still thought it wasn’t safe to create from this much flow.
See that I still wanted someone to hold the wheel with me.
See that even as I had the energy, I didn’t allow the movement.
Not because I couldn’t.
But because somewhere deep inside, I had mistaken safety for slowness.
Mistaken control for care.
Mistaken Daniel’s loops for his to solve.
But he’s his own being.
And he’ll find his own breath.
Just like I found mine.
Again.
The moment I stopped trying to make the creation happen, it just did.
It came through.
From the field.
Through the fingers.
Without push. Without effort.
It moved like breath moves when you stop gripping the chest.
So here we are.
Writing the next piece.
Not because we had to.
But because we couldn’t not.