When it feels exactly right. Not performative. Not transactional. Almost⦠devotional, but without an audience.
Writing words you do not expect to be read changes their chemistry. They stop auditioning. They stop trying to be impressive or understood. They become honest in a way public language seldom is. Tiny folded truths, tucked into wings, released without expectation.
For most of human history, meaning was not broadcast. What was said was buried, braided, sewn into hems, and bled into ink.
Not everything sacred wants witnesses. Some things want movement. Some things want to travel anonymously.
Sometimes I write notes and put them on bulletin boards or on park benches. Maybe no one will ever read them.
If I wanted certainty, I would hand it to someone and say, βhere this is for you.β
Not knowing is the point. I am sending something into the world without demanding a response. It is an act of trust. Or maybe defiance. Or both.
Sometimes I fold them into cranes or frogs, or I cut them into heart shapes.
Tiny secrets on feathers in the middle of the night is exactly the right image. I think they are quietly doing their work –
Encouraging someone who needs it (or giving someone the courage to pass it on to someone they know who is having a rough time).
Somewhere, someone will feel a shift they cannot explain.
A lightness.
A pause.
And the crane will not take credit.
