There are months that leave a low conviction that your life is somehow too small, too short on the things that matter.

A deep blue flooding to gold, the gold at its heart broad and full. It rings like a struck bell still sounding, smells of cedar and beeswax, and tastes of honey and ripe fig.

A month under the sense of lack can quietly rewrite your whole life as not-enough. It brings nothing and promises nothing — it holds a deep, generous fullness, where the life you already have can be felt as more than it seemed.