“Time well spent” has lingered in me like a silent vow ever since I was handed a second chance at life, almost eighteen years ago.
Not as a slogan.
Not as a goal with milestones.
More like a soft ache that refuses to leave.
I never quite learned how to measure it. I still don’t know how to savour it. But somewhere deep inside, a quiet compass keeps asking the same question: Am I spending this moment well?
Like a tree that loses a branch,
you too will break,
under storms unseen,
under words unkind.
Yet the tree does not mourn its limb,
nor bends to stitch what’s gone—
it feels the sun upon the wound,
and quietly begins again.
Let your hurt fall to the soil,
let it feed your roots instead of fears.
Grow new dreams from what once bled,
and stretch toward the light that calls you near.
For life never asks you to be whole again—
only alive, wiser, and willing to bloom.
Some things unfold in whispers,
not for the hurried ear—
they bloom in the hush
where doubt and wonder meet.
The unseen hand moves quietly,
painting cause behind the veil,
each turn, each tear, each tremor—
a lesson sealed in grace.
Blurred eyes see loss and chance,
open hearts see light disguised—
for every ache, a seed is sown,
for every end, an unseen dawn.
So wait, not with fear, but faith—
for reason is not to be found,
it reveals itself in stillness—
when the heart remembers to see.