There are seasons when the world feels like it is shifting underfoot — not all at once, not dramatically, but just enough to make you question your balance.

Do you feel it, too?

Nothing has necessarily collapsed.
Nothing is clearly finished.
And yet, something feels . . . . less certain than it used to.

In moments like that, it can help to notice what has not moved.

Not as a declaration of hope.
Not as an argument against worry.
Just as a quiet inventory — the way one might check familiar landmarks after a fog rolls through.

A few things still hold.

Morning still arrives, even on the days when enthusiasm does not. Light shows up without asking how we slept or what we are carrying. It has a way of finding the edges of things — countertops, window frames, the rim of a coffee cup — and reminding us where we are.

Kindness still happens in small, almost forgettable ways. Someone pauses instead of pushing ahead. Someone listens longer than required. Someone does a thing they will never be thanked for. These moments rarely make noise, but they have not disappeared.

The body still knows how to breathe. Even when the mind is busy rehearsing worries or replaying conversations, the lungs keep doing their quiet work. In and out. Over and over. A small, faithful rhythm we do not have to manage.

Familiar routines still offer their shape. The same chair. The same walk. The same ordinary tasks that once felt dull and now feel oddly reassuring. There is comfort in doing something you have done before, even when the larger picture feels unsettled.

And beneath all of it, there is this —
You are still here.

That may sound obvious. It is not. Being here — present in the moment, trying, showing up in whatever way you can — counts for more than most of us give it credit for. Especially in times like these, don’t you think?

None of this fixes anything.
It is not meant to.

It is simply a reminder that not everything loosened at once. Some things stayed put. Some things kept their place. Some things are still doing exactly what they have always done.

If today feels heavy, that does not mean you are doing it wrong.
If you feel tired in ways sleep does not quite touch, you are not alone in that.
If all you can manage right now is to notice one small, steady thing — that may be enough. And we can do that, can’t we?

There will be time for decisions later.
There will be time for action, and clarity, and movement.

For now, it is alright to rest your attention on what still holds.

That is not giving up.
That is finding your footing.
And for now, that is enough.

‘Til next time.  — Jim  (and Red!)

(We’ll get back together here again on Saturday when the Gazette arrives. Hope to see you!)

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These illustrations were created with the assistance of AI.