Hey friends.

It’s been a while.

The last time I wrote here, life looked and felt very different — and so did I. The urgency that once poured words out of me has long since shifted. Grief doesn’t burn the same way anymore. These days it hums. Settles. Echoes when the wind hits it just right.

For a long time, I thought I was done writing. I didn’t think I had anything else to say. The thing I used to write about — that sharp, painful, beautiful chapter — had ended. Maggie was gone. And when she left, the signal changed… and then faded. Until, finally, one day I lost the signal completely. I had nothing else to say.

But recently, something started whispering again.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just flickers. The kind that show up when you notice a squirrel drinking from a busted drainpipe. Or when a crack forms in the concrete floor of the home you built with shaking hands. Or when the wind coaxes the trees to sing — and for just a second, everything stops.

Silence.

I’ve started writing again. Not because I have to — but because I need to. Because sometimes the wind says something unexpected, and somebody has to translate.

So I made a new home for those translations.
It’s called The Trees Don’t Know How to Dance — and that feels about right.

It’s where I’ll post new stories. Some short. Some sideways. All of them true, even if they aren’t.

It’ll still be me. Just… sitting on the porch, listening. Writing things down. Trying to catch what the world says when no one else is paying attention. Finding new signals.

I’m glad you’re here.

And if you’ve been here for a long time — thank you. Truly.
I hope the new stories find you the way the old ones once did.

With care,
Chris