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WCF-14

Jun 6, 2014

Explorations in Art, Spirit & Life

Welcome

These are my field notes — observations gathered from the landscapes of life and work. This is where art, soul, and lived experience intersect.
You’ll find poetry, imagery, reflections on energy and spirit, and the quiet documentation of a life being shaped with care. Read slowly. Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t.
This space is for the curious, the contemplative, and the creatively alive. — Jess

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✍🏻 Making soup is life in a pot. Not the pretty ve ✍🏻 Making soup is life in a pot. Not the pretty version— the real one. The kind where everything you’ve carried gets thrown in— the tender parts, the hardened edges, the bitterness you tried to hide, the sweetness you were afraid to claim. It all goes in. At first, nothing makes sense. It’s messy. Too much of this, not enough of that. Pieces floating, colliding, refusing to become anything but themselves. And there’s a moment— a very real, human moment— where you want to fix it. Force it. Control it. Tear it apart and start over. But surrender doesn’t look like perfection. It looks like staying. It looks like standing in the in-between, where nothing is finished, nothing is certain, and still choosing not to interfere. So you let it simmer. You let the heat touch everything you once tried to protect. You let time do what your hands cannot. And slowly—almost painfully slow— things begin to break down. The sharpness softens. The bitterness spreads out, no longer overwhelming, just… part of the whole. The sweetness deepens, no longer fragile, but rooted. And somewhere in that quiet unraveling, you realize— surrender is not gentle. It is not passive. It is the courage to let something change you without knowing who you’ll be on the other side. It is trusting that even in the mess, even in the waiting, even in the moments that feel like too much— something sacred is happening. You don’t rush it. You don’t rescue it. You don’t abandon it. You stay. You stir when needed. And sometimes… you don’t touch it at all. And what comes from that— what rises from that— is something you could have never forced into existence. Richer. Deeper. Honest. Not perfect— but real. And in that raw, slow becoming, you don’t just taste the beauty of life— you taste yourself as you truly are. 🤍 Jess Little
✍🏻She Kept Moving … There were days she couldn’t ✍🏻She Kept Moving … There were days she couldn’t recognize herself— just a body moving through something heavy with no name. The light felt far. Joy felt borrowed. Even breathing felt like work. But she didn’t stop. She moved— not gracefully, not consistently, but enough. Enough to write when the words burned. Enough to create when it felt pointless. Enough to stay when leaving herself would’ve been easier. No one clapped for that. No one saw how she became her own witness, her own safe place, her own reason to keep going. She learned you don’t wait for the darkness to lift— you move through it. Slowly. Honestly. Anyway. And somewhere in that quiet persistence… she softened. she opened. she returned. Not healed. Not finished. But alive again. And that— that is how she bloomed. ✍🏻Jess Little
There is a kind of work that will never be seen— b There is a kind of work that will never be seen— but it will rewrite you from the inside out. No applause. No audience. Just the quiet… stretching longer than you expected. This is the work that finds you when life goes still— or when God, in His own way, clears the room. Things fall away. People drift. Noise disappears. And at first, it feels like loss. Like loneliness. Like something has gone wrong. But what if it hasn’t? What if this is the sacred undoing— where everything not meant for you is gently, and sometimes painfully, removed? Some call it shadow work. Some call it a dark night. Some call it depression. But beneath the weight of it… there is a quiet invitation: to meet yourself without distraction, to sit in truth without escape, to become without performance. This is where you grieve what was. This is where you release who you had to be. This is where you stop reaching outward… and start building inward. And yes— it can feel isolating. But not all isolation is abandonment. Some of it is divine protection. Some of it is redirection. Some of it is God whispering, “Not this. Not them. Not anymore.” So He removes. He stills. He simplifies. Until it is just you… and Him… in the quiet… reconstructing something truer. And one day—softly, almost without notice— you rise different. Clearer. Stronger. Untangled from what once held you. Not because it was easy— but because you stayed in the silence long enough to understand what it was shaping you into. The quiet work is not empty. It is sacred. It is where everything misaligned falls away… and everything meant for you begins to find its way back. 🤟🏻 #keepingthefaith
Maybe this is the moment you’ve been trying to rus Maybe this is the moment you’ve been trying to rush past—the quiet one, where nothing seems to bloom, yet everything beneath the surface is becoming. Where your prayers hover like breath in the air, unseen but never lost, and your longing is not unanswered, only unfolding. There is a sacred intelligence moving through your life, a timing that does not bend to urgency, only to truth. And you—you are not forgotten here. You are being prepared, positioned, gently held in the in-between. So soften. So trust. Let the stillness speak. Let the unseen work. Let this moment, just as it is, be enough. ✍🏻
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