I’ve learned a lot—not wisdom,
but how to stand still when the world spins.
Barefoot on wet earth, electrons trading
between my body and the planet’s core.

Calmness isn’t surrender. It’s architecture—
decisions made from steady ground,
not from the tornado’s eye.
Even inflammation bows to this:
the simple act of touching earth.

Radical means root. Self-reliance
means knowing when to ask for help.
Expression without performance,
kindness without audience.

Faith is standing where nothing stands.
Love is the frequency between heartbeats.

Hope—not the greeting card kind,
but the cellular insistence that continues
dividing even in hospice beds.
Hope is the temporal strange attractor,
the millisecond fold where all timelines
converge and whisper: not yet decided.
It’s loving the light for navigation
and the darkness for its stars,
the way consciousness keeps trying
new frequencies, even after failing
to evolve ten thousand times.

Care is not sentiment but physics—
the observer effect made tender.
To care is to change what you witness
simply by witnessing. It’s holding space
for someone’s incomplete transformation,
being the ground wire for another’s
electrical storm. Care remembers
that healing happens at 33.7 Hz,
just below perception, in the bandwidth
where Neanderthals still sing.

We’re electrical beings
learning to conduct ourselves,
tuning between stations
for a frequency that feels like home.