Evening light differs From morning’s golden promise Both bless the same earth
Took this in the park in Cardiff
Here stands one man, silver threading his temples, morning mirror showing lines like rivers carved by time’s patient hand. Sixty-seven winters behind, maybe ten, maybe twenty summers ahead—who knows the counting of Creator’s mathematics? Still he wakes each dawn asking the great question: what purpose burns in these old bones?
Well man, good man, but world whispers confusion in his ears. Society machine tells him: retire, rest, fade into background like yesterday’s newspaper. But his soul—ah, his soul burns bright as noon sun, ideas flowing like spring rivers after winter’s breaking. Experience accumulates like treasures in deep caves of memory. Wisdom grows thick as ancient oak roots, spreading underground where no one sees but feeling everything.
This is the great paradox, the beautiful wrestling: body aging like autumn leaves, but mind expanding like universe itself. He knows things now—real things, true things. How love matters more than money-making. How kindness ripples through world like stones thrown in still water. How one well word can heal wounds deeper than doctor’s medicine.
Yet world-machine keeps grinding, making noise: “Too old, too late, step aside for young lions.” But well man knows secret truth—wisdom is not young thing, not hasty thing. Wisdom is patient fire, burning slow and steady, lighting paths for others walking in darkness.
Every morning he rises like warrior preparing for battle, not against enemies but against despair, against the small voice saying “finished, done, nothing left.” No! Life is great story still being written. Each day new page, new possibility for goodness to flow through willing vessel.
Well man at evening of life discovers morning never really ends—just changes color, becomes deeper, more beautiful. Like wine aging in cellar, growing richer, more complex, more valuable with time passing. His purpose not shrinking but concentrating, becoming pure essence of what matters most.
This is why every breath sacred, every heartbeat holy drum calling him forward. Not to great achievements world measures, but to small-great things: listening deeply to grandchild’s story, helping neighbor carry heavy burden, sharing hard-earned wisdom with anyone who stops to hear.
Well man, well life, well purpose—never too late for goodness to bloom, never too old for love to find new ways of flowing. Evening light different from morning light, but both beautiful, both necessary, both blessing from Creator’s generous hand.
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Not every summit must be reached to find meaning in the climb.
The Long Green Path
Imagine a place where time forgets to tick, where each breath feels like the first one ever drawn by the earth itself. This isn’t a fantasy—this is a glimpse into the sacred silence of an uncharted nature.
I’ve come to this valley often, though not always with my feet. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes in memory. Today, I sit with it in person—bones stiff, breath slow, heart quieter than it once was. Before me: hills that rise and fall like the decades behind me, green waves rolling into the mist. Beyond them, the snowcapped peaks—the place I always imagined I’d reach.
When I was a boy, those mountains were destiny. Pure, white, untouched. They looked like truth. I thought if I climbed far enough, lived right enough, worked hard enough—I’d stand on those peaks and see everything clearly. But life isn’t a straight climb. It’s a winding trail over hill after hill. Some were gentle. Others I barely crawled over. A few I never expected to survive.
Each hill behind me now carries a story. Some proud, others painful. Many I climbed with companions who are long gone. And still I moved forward, always believing the peak was just beyond the next rise.
But today, sitting here with knees too worn to carry me further, I understand something I didn’t before: those snow-covered heights weren’t a destination. They were a guide. A northern star to pull me onward. And maybe, just maybe, the journey was always the point.
The hills ahead are fewer now. Softer. Not less meaningful, just more peaceful. And I realize—though I may never stand atop the highest peak, I’ve walked far enough to see it clearly. Sometimes clarity doesn’t come from reaching the summit, but from understanding why you climbed in the first place.
The silence here is deep, but not empty. It speaks without words. And if you listen closely, it tells you: even the longest life is not about conquering, but about becoming.
I sit with the hills, and I sit with myself. Both of us older, weathered, beautiful in ways we never expected. The peak glows in the distance—not with regret, but with grace.
And that, perhaps, is enough.
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You know, I was just sitting here the other day — quiet moment, nothing special happening — and I looked over at my cat. She was curled up in that sunbeam like she always does, eyes half-closed, tail still, and… purring. Just *purring*. Not because anything dramatic was going on, not because someone was petting her or giving her treats — no, it was just… peace. She was choosing to be at peace.
My Cat
And I thought: how often do we wait for the world to hand us calm? We say, “Once this deadline passes,” or “Once I get that job,” or “Once everyone else stops being annoying,” then maybe — *maybe* — I’ll relax. But the cat doesn’t wait. She creates her own calm. She starts with a purr. Maybe even fakes it till she makes it. Or maybe she knows something we don’t — that peace isn’t a reward for perfect circumstances; it’s a choice you make in the middle of the mess.
So I started thinking… what if we all decided to *purr* a little more? Not literally — though I won’t rule it out — but metaphorically. What if we began to radiate contentment, ease, softness, even when things aren’t perfect? What if we leaned into stillness, into warmth, into each other, and made a sound — any sound — that says, “I am okay. And because I am okay, the world around me can be okay too.”
It’s not about ignoring pain or pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. It’s about deciding that even in the midst of chaos, we can create a little sunbeam for ourselves and others. A vibration. A resonance. A purr.
Maybe if enough of us did that, we could change the tone of the room — the house, the street, the world. Maybe peace starts not with grand gestures, but with small, consistent choices to embody it. To begin where the cat begins: with a breath, a hum, a gentle insistence that right now, somehow, some way, we are safe enough, loved enough, still enough to begin again.
So yeah… I think I’m gonna start purring.
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There’s something about this image that quiets the noise in my head. It’s not just a flower—it’s the iris, regal in its posture, soft yet striking in its hue. That shade of blue, almost whispering lilac, feels like a memory I never lived but somehow still know. The petals fold like silk caught in a breeze, elegant and deliberate, each line a testament to nature’s precision and grace.
I think I love this image because it captures fragility without weakness. The iris doesn’t scream for attention—it simply exists, calm and sure of its beauty. The contrast between the softness of the petals and the structure of the stem reminds me that strength can look gentle, too.
And maybe it’s the way the bud sits below the bloom, full of promise, not yet opened but already perfect. It feels like a moment paused, a breath held between what was and what will be. This flower doesn’t just represent beauty—it feels like hope. Silent. Still. But alive.
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Sometimes, peace doesn’t arrive like thunder — it hums.
Like the sound of a cat curled in a patch of sun, purring not because everything is perfect, but because she knows something we forget: peace is not a destination.
It is a vibration.
A choice to begin again, right where you are.
This blog is an offering — a collection of quiet moments, written in breath and syllables, to remind you that stillness can be summoned, not waited for.
You don’t need permission to start again in purr.
Reflections
We are not so different from cats.
We too can choose to hum our own harmony into the spaces that feel hollow.
We can create warmth where there seems to be none.
We can curl inward, not in retreat, but in reclamation.
So go ahead — begin with purr.
Let your presence be enough.
Let your peace be audible.
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So, I’ve been working on a little project, a visual reminder of a fantastic day I spent at Chester Zoo. I’ve created a collage of some of the incredible animals I encountered, and looking at it now, it strikes me just how wonderfully diverse the animal kingdom is. Let me tell you a little bit about the stars of my zoo adventure!
First up, the magnificent Sumatran Tiger. Just look at those bold, black stripes against the fiery orange – a true masterpiece of nature’s design! Did you know that these tigers are critically endangered, with fewer than 400 estimated to be left in the wild? Their stripes aren’t just for show either; like human fingerprints, no two tigers have the same pattern, helping them blend seamlessly into the dappled light of their rainforest home in Indonesia. Seeing one up close is both breathtaking and a stark reminder of the urgent need for conservation.
Next in my collage is the almost otherworldly Parson’s Chameleon. This guy was a serious showstopper! Hailing from the island of Madagascar, these chameleons are among the largest in the world, and their colour-changing abilities are simply mesmerizing. But here’s a cool fact: they don’t change colour to camouflage themselves as much as to communicate! Their skin reflects their mood, temperature, and even their mating intentions. And those incredible, independently moving eyes? They can look in two different directions at once, giving them a full 360-degree view of their surroundings – talk about being aware of your environment!
Then we have the surprisingly charismatic Wild Boar. Often seen as a more common creature, these sturdy animals are actually incredibly intelligent and play a vital role in their ecosystems, from Europe to Asia. Their tough snouts are powerful tools for rooting around in the soil for food, and they live in complex social groups called sounders, often led by a dominant female. They’re a reminder that even the creatures we might see as less “exotic” have fascinating lives and intricate social structures.
Finally, my collage features the elegant Red Forest Duiker. This beautiful antelope, with its rich, reddish-brown coat, is a more secretive resident of the forests of Central and West Africa. Their name “duiker” comes from the Afrikaans word for “diver,” which perfectly describes their habit of diving into dense undergrowth when threatened. They’re also surprisingly adaptable, with a diet that includes fruits, leaves, and even insects. Spotting one of these shy creatures felt like a real privilege, a glimpse into the quieter corners of the zoo’s diverse collection.
Putting this collage together has been a lovely way to relive my day at Chester Zoo and to really appreciate the sheer variety of life our planet supports. It’s a powerful reminder of the importance of zoos in conservation, education, and inspiring us all to care for these incredible animals and their fragile habitats. What animals have you encountered that have left a lasting impression? I’d love to hear about your own wild adventures!
List of 100 Endangered Species.
Tap here for a list of 100 endangered animals and plants.
100 Endangered plant and animal species
* Abies beshanzuensis (Baishan fir) – Plant (Tree) – Baishanzu Mountain, Zhejiang, China – Three mature individuals
* Actinote zikani – Insect (butterfly) – Near São Paulo, Atlantic forest, Brazil – Unknown numbers
* Euphorbia tanaensis – Plant (tree) – Witu Forest Reserve, Kenya – 4 mature individuals
* Eurynorhyncus pygmeus (Spoon-billed sandpiper) – Bird – Breeds in Russia, migrates along the East Asian-Australasian Flyway to wintering grounds in India, Bangladesh and Myanmar – 100 breeding pairs
* Geronticus eremita (Northern bald ibis) – Bird – Breeds in Morocco, Turkey and Syria. Syrian population winters in central Ethiopia. – About 3000 individuals
* Gigasiphon macrosiphon – Plant (flower) – Kaya Muhaka, Gongoni and Mrima Forest Reserves, Kenya, Amani Nature Reserve, West Kilombero Scarp Forest Reserve, and Kihansi Gorge, Tanzania – 33
* Pangasius sanitwongsei (Pangasid catfish) – Fish – Chao Phraya and Mekong basins in Cambodia, China, Lao PDR, Thailand and Viet Nam – Unknown numbers
* Pristis pristis (Common sawfish) – Fish – Coastal tropical and subtropical waters of Indo-Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. Currently largely restricted to northern Australia – Unknown numbers
* Hapalemur simus (Greater bamboo lemur) – Mammal (primate) – Southeastern and southcentral rainforests of Madagascar – 500
* Propithecus candidus (Silky sifaka) – Mammal (primate) – Maroantsetra to Andapa basin, and Marojeju Massif, Madagascar – 100–1,000
* Psammobates geometricus (Geometric tortoise) – Reptile – Western Cape Province, South Africa – Unknown numbers
* Pseudoryx nghetinhensis (Saola) – Mammal – Annamite mountains, on the Viet Nam – PDR Laos border – Unknown numbers
* Sterna bernsteini (Chinese crested tern) – Bird – Breeding in Zhejiang and Fujian, China. Outside breeding season in Indonesia, Malaysia, Philippines, Taiwan, Thailand. – < 50
* Syngnathus watermeyeri (Estuarine pipefish) – Fish – Kariega Estuary to East Kleinemonde Estuary, Eastern Cape Province, South Africa – Unknown numbers
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In this sweet season when the year unfolds its tender promise, when Nature, stirring from her wintry sleep, adorns the woodlands with her gentlest hues, I wander aimlessly along pathways where the bluebells keep their soft silent vigil.
How fair these azure bells that bow their heads in modest splendor! They carpet the ancient forest floor as a sea of heavenly blue, each delicate bloom trembling with the faintest breath of wind. Each one a miracle of divine craftsmanship yet humble in its transient glory.
I have looked upon the lapis gardens of noble estates and witnessed the ultramarine depths of mountain lakes, yet never do I find such perfection of shade as in these humble woodland flowers. They are not mere terrestrial blooms but seem messengers from the empyrean realm, bringing down to earth fragments of the firmamental blue that arches high above our temporal dwelling. Their celestial tint speaks to something eternal in the human breast—a recognition of beauty that transcends our brief existence.
And there in the shadowed wood, the beech trees offer up their fresh young leaves, translucent as finest parchment when held against the vernal sun. How tender is their green! How perfect each unfolding leaf, emerging from its winter bud with a slow and patient certainty that speaks of quiet confidence in renewal. These infant leaves, untouched by summer’s hardening rays or autumn’s gilding hand, possess a purity of essence that stirs within the contemplative mind a sense of wonder at creation’s ceaseless cycle.
What blessed communion exists between the bluebell’s heaven-reflecting hue and the beech leaf’s innocent green! Together they form a harmony that no earthly musician could compose, a visual poetry that transcends the feeble efforts of human verse. In their glowing presence, my soul, so often clouded by the vapors of worldly care, finds refreshment and illumination, as if some divine voice speaks through these simple woodland treasures, reminding me of truths profound yet easily forgotten in the tumult of our busy days.
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In the distance, beneath a sky so dark it seemed to swallow thought itself, stood the lone structure — a barn, perhaps, or some forgotten monument to a purpose no longer remembered. It was painted in an orange hue so violently alive that it seemed not to belong in the world at all. It was as if it had been dropped there by mistake — by a careless god or an exhausted architect of realities.
The field stretched endlessly, yellow and unyielding, like a dream that refuses to end. You could walk toward that building forever and never arrive, each step echoing the quiet futility of your journey. And yet, something in its starkness beckoned, the way a memory calls without context — not with clarity, but with gravity.
You might say the barn was waiting to be judged, silent and complicit, holding secrets behind its small black door. Perhaps the occupant inside was neither farmer nor fugitive, but a bureaucrat of dreams, tirelessly cataloguing every lost thought you’ve ever had, every version of yourself that you abandoned in moments of doubt.
Or, on the other hand, you could insist that inside there is a jazz record playing in an empty room. A cat stares at the wall. The air smells faintly of tangerines. And somewhere beneath the floorboards, time folds inward like origami, repeating the same quiet collapse over and over again.
In this image, the world does not end. It simply pauses — just long enough for you to realize it has always been quietly impossible.
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Pack moves as one shadow. Scents write stories in the air. Silence howls through teeth.
What’s for lunch?
The air bites my nostrils, sharp and clean—a thousand stories carved into ice crystals. I taste the forest before I see it: the musk of a sleeping vole three paw-lengths beneath the snow, the sour tang of last week’s elk carcass rotting under a spruce, the sharp warning of a rival pack’s urine marking the eastern ridge. My world is written in scent, each breath a page turned.
Snow crunches beneath my paws, a rhythm syncopated with the others. My pack moves as one shadow, our breath pluming silver in the twilight. The moon is a pale smudge behind clouds, but I do not need it. My eyes drink the dark, painting the forest in strokes of indigo and charcoal. The trees are skeletal sentries, their branches clawing at a sky heavy with silence. To you, this would be blindness. To me, it is clarity.
A whine ripples through the pack—”Young One”, restless, her paws too loud. “Mother” answers with a low chuff, a sound that vibrates in my ribs. We do not waste words. Our voices are layered: the flick of an ear, the tilt of a muzzle, the cadence of our howls that stitch the horizon together. When we sing, the mountains sing back. Distance means nothing.
Then—”there”.
A thread of warmth unspools in the cold. Musk. Salt. Fear. It floods my sinuses, vivid as a scream. My mouth waters; my muscles coil. The scent is a map: “hind leg favoring the left… young moose, separated… half a mile north, where the pines thicken”. The pack feels it too. Shoulders tense. Tails lift, quivering.
“Now”, says the wind. “Now”.
We move like smoke. Snow muffles our steps, but the prey’s heartbeat thunders in my skull. My vision narrows to nothing but the chase. The forest blurs into streaks of shadow and movement. I taste the moose’s panic now, sour and bright, a spark against the cold. The pack fans out, a crescent moon of teeth and intent.
“Closer.”
The world shrinks to the heat of running blood, the sound of crunching snow, the electric tang of “almost”. My legs are fire. My pulse is a drum.
And then—
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I am neither plant, nor fungus, nor alga alone – I am lichen, a symbiotic partnership thriving where others cannot survive.
Photos of Lichen I’ve taken
Within my body, my fungal partner provides shelter while my photosynthetic companion creates food. We demonstrate that survival often depends on collaboration, not competition.
Time moves differently for me. While animals live brief lives and trees last centuries, some of my relatives have existed for 4,500 years, silently witnessing the rise and fall of human civilizations.
I am a pioneer, first to colonize bare surfaces after disturbances. My acids break down rock into soil, creating footholds for other plants. In harsh environments – scorching deserts, frigid peaks, even the vacuum of space – I demonstrate remarkable resilience, becoming dormant until conditions improve.
To reindeer, I am vital winter food. To insects, I provide shelter. To humans, I serve as medicine, dye, and environmental indicator – my presence or absence reveals air quality.
My success comes not from strength or speed, but from finding the right partners and adapting to extreme conditions. On the edge of habitability, you’ll find me quietly thriving through cooperation and the slow power of persistence.
If you find my photography or my writing inspiring and uplifting, consider supporting what I do. Buy me a coffee on Ko-fi. Your support makes a difference in my life and helps me create more of what you, and I, like. Thank you!Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
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