How do you relax?
I do not seek peace in only one place,
for my soul knows many doors.
Each path, each practice,
opens quietly, like dawn unfolding its wings.
When words arrive,
they are lanterns in the dusk,
guiding me to a silence deeper
than sleep could ever promise.
Writing is both release and return—
ink flowing as breath,
pages turning as tides.
When I build, whether from scratch or from kit,
I am architect and apprentice both.
Wood, metal, paper, plastic—
each becomes a hymn beneath my hands.
A new fish, carved from vision,
or an old one reborn with care,
swims not just through water,
but through memory and dream.
In the kitchen, heat rises like prayer.
I bake with frenzy,
and yet it is not frenzy at all—
it is alchemy.
Flour becomes cloud,
sugar becomes song,
and what emerges carries
the scent of home, of wonder,
of comfort rising from fire.
And yes—
even the humble act of cleaning
is its own meditation.
To clear a space
is to clear a mind.
To polish what has dulled
is to awaken what still shines.
Each swept corner,
each folded cloth,
is a blessing,
a small triumph that whispers:
I am here. I am whole.
So in writing,
in building,
in shaping fish and bread and order,
I find my sanctuaries.
They are many,
yet they are one—
each a doorway to stillness,
each a thread in the tapestry
of my spirit’s peace.
The Writings of Felina Silver 
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