Author: James A. Pearson

A few years ago I felt like my life would never change. It was a year or so into COVID. I’d been working the same job for years, spending evenings and weekends scratching away at figuring what I actually love and how to grow into it. But no matter how much changed inside me, the… Continue reading Gentle Tools for Growth in the New Year

It happens in a moment—this tiny, imperceptible turningwhen all at once the nightceases its imperial advanceand the next morning promisesto dawn just a sigh earlierthan the one before. The world still goes on dyingaround it, and trying to keep itself alive.This is not yet the spring. But huddled in their dens,their nests, their thick forest… Continue reading Winter Solstice

Sit stilland you will finddiscomfort. Sit stillin the discomfortand you will find what needs you.

Just before noon I step out backto take a break from wonderingwhat my life will become.The sun is on the flower bed,turning the poppies intosmall bowls of light. How simply they make their offering:nectar for the bees,pollen for each other,subtle bows to their low sky. One flower is just emergingfrom its small, green cocoon,the rich… Continue reading A Simple Offering

Did you knowthere will be poppiesagain this year?It’s true. I’ve seentheir muted green fractalsstockpiling sunlight,distilling it downto its purest essencebefore ignitinginto slow motion fireworks. In the end, isn’t this allthat’s required of you? To drink in what you love,to concentrate itin the crucible of your body,and, finally, to bloom.

Some wintersare so longyou can forgetwhat spring does until it does it.

Sometimes your nexthalting stepis more powerfulthan the grandest vision. All a leaf knowsabout building a treeis to turn towards the light.

I’m not saying it’s been easy,this life. Harder, in fact,than you ever expected.What I’m saying is thatevery one of your morningshas been met by the sun rising.Every time you made a dollarit was met by an apple,whose firm white flesh—a partnership of tree and rain,of sunlight and farmer and soil—is no different than a miracle.What… Continue reading What I’m Trying to Say

You are notthis runted little treeshiver-dancing near the topof an overlooked mountain,fated to the thin, rockysoil of your life. But imagine if you were. Imagine if all you had to doto be beautifulwas to let the wind dance you where you standas you grow intothe only shapeyou ever had.