Sometimes the only way to understand the valley is to leave it. Climb higher. The view from the cabin window will not be the view from the trailhead.
What seemed enormous yesterday — that argument, that disappointment, that fear that filled the whole sky — begins to find its proportion. The mountains were always larger. We just couldn’t see them from where we stood.
Perspective is the gentlest form of grace. It does not erase what happened. It simply places it inside a story bigger than the wound.
Look back, then. With patience. The fire is warm. The road behind you led somewhere — even when you could not name where. Trust the climb you have already made.
From up here, the world is smaller and softer. From up here, you can begin to forgive.
