Asides

Noticing the Good: The Power of Seeing What’s Been Overlooked

As the sun sets below the horizon, the sky undergoes a stunning change. Fiery oranges, deep magentas, violet blues, and rich indigos merge, filling the sky with breathtaking hues.

In those few moments, the world feels different—lighter, somehow. The burst of color cuts through the heaviness of the day, reminding anyone who looks that even in overwhelming moments, beauty finds a way to break through. The glow is brief, but its impact lingers.

The evening air was sharp with cold, the kind that nips at the edges of awareness. In the midst of a restless walk, questions looped relentlessly: What’s next? What if this doesn’t work? What if it does, but it’s still not enough?

In that moment, the sky, with its raw and vibrant colors, held everything still. The weight of everything else faded, if only for a brief pause. It was in that pause that something shifted. A sense of presence emerged, reminding me and any other spectators of a truth often forgotten: the importance of noticing.

Why Noticing Matters

In times of uncertainty, it is easy to focus on what’s wrong or what’s missing, falling into a spiral of negativity. This response, known as negativity bias, helped our ancestors stay alert to danger. However, today, it often increases stress and prevents people from noticing the small moments of good around them (Baumeister et al., 2001).

Barbara Fredrickson’s broaden-and-build theory introduces a different perspective. She argues that emotions like awe, gratitude, and joy do more than enhance well-being—they expand thinking. These emotions play a key role in building resilience, helping individuals bounce back from challenges and stay steady through adversity. In moments of awe, strength surfaces, and a sense of equilibrium is regained, shifting focus from what is missing to what is already in place.

The sunset didn’t erase the doubts or fears, but it stirred something deeper. It served as a reminder that, even in the darkest moments, good things remain.

Where the Good Hides

The good isn’t gone; it’s hidden in the small, often overlooked moments of life. It is there in the steam rising from a cup of coffee, the crisp crunch of leaves beneath footsteps, or the brief wave from a passing neighbor. When stress takes over, these moments slip into the background, unnoticed and undervalued. Yet they persist, reminding us of what truly matters.

A few weeks ago, the weight of endless emails, looming deadlines, and unspoken expectations felt overwhelming. While walking outside, sunlight filtered through the trees, scattering golden light across the sidewalk. It didn’t resolve the chaos, but in that brief moment, it provided a much-needed pause. The weight of the day, still present, shifted.

Research supports this. Sonja Lyubomirsky’s (2007) studies reveal that lasting joy often emerges not from major accomplishments, but from small, everyday moments: sinking into a favorite chair, hearing a familiar laugh, or feeling the rush of a song that stirs a memory.

A friend once shared how, during a tough year, she began writing down three things she was grateful for each night: her dog’s wagging tail, the scent of rain, sunlight warming the kitchen floor. Initially, it felt forced, but gradually, those small moments of appreciation began to shift her perspective. What had once seemed ordinary started to hold deeper meaning. Gratitude doesn’t erase life’s struggles, but it changes how they are carried. It shifts the focus, making the weight feel a little lighter.

How to Practice Noticing

Noticing the good takes time and effort. At first, it’s not easy. With practice and consistency, especially during tough times, it begins to grow. The more it’s practiced, the easier it becomes. Start small—step outside, even for just a moment.

Focus on the details around you: the way the wind moves through the trees, the rhythm of your steps, or the scent in the air. When something stands out, take a moment. Let it settle, even if it seems fleeting.

Some days, noticing can feel impossible. The goal isn’t to force it, but to develop a habit of paying attention. Over time, those small pauses build, offering a sense of perspective when it is needed the most.

The Joy of Sharing

One of the unexpected gifts of noticing is the joy of sharing it with others. A friend once sent me a photo of a sunrise—soft streaks of pink and orange stretching across rooftops. Her message was simple: “Thought you’d like this.” She was right. That small gesture served as a reminder that the good is still here, even when it is easy to forget.

Since then, sending these moments has become a practice—whether it is a photo of changing leaves or the way light falls just so on the pavement. A small act, but one filled with meaning. Sharing it is a way of saying, “This mattered to me, and I thought it might matter to you, too.”

Noticing doesn’t just ground—it connects.

An Invitation

The good is already here, waiting to be noticed. It won’t erase the weight of challenges, but it can shift how they are carried. Step outside. Look around. Notice the sunlight filtering through leaves, the distant hum of a lawnmower, or the way rain dots a window. These moments won’t fix everything, but they can provide a sense of steadiness, offering the strength needed to move forward.

References

  • Baumeister, R. F., Bratslavsky, E., Finkenauer, C., & Vohs, K. D. (2001). Bad is stronger than good. Review of General Psychology, 5(4), 323–370. https://doi.org/10.1037/1089-2680.5.4.323
  • Emmons, R. A., & McCullough, M. E. (2003). Counting blessings versus burdens: An experimental investigation of gratitude and subjective well-being in daily life. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 84(2), 377–389. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.84.2.377
  • Fredrickson, B. L. (2004). The broaden-and-build theory of positive emotions. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 359(1449), 1367–1378. https://doi.org/10.1098/rstb.2004.1512
  • Lyubomirsky, S. (2007). The how of happiness: A new approach to getting the life you want. Penguin Press.

Shifting the Stone

At some point, a stone appears—an obstacle so large it feels insurmountable. It might be a personal struggle, a difficult choice, or an unexpected challenge that feels unbeatable.

The common instinct is often to avoid, work around, or ignore it. It is seen as a barrier to progress. What if that stone isn’t something to sidestep? What if it’s something to reshape? Within its hardness, there could be something waiting to be uncovered—a path, a door, a new direction.

This question lies at the heart of Shifting the Stone. The poem challenges not to escape difficulties, but to transform them. The stone doesn’t vanish; it changes. What once felt like an insurmountable barrier now shifts into something more practical—something that can be used to move forward.

The poem speaks to anyone who has faced a challenge, encouraging a new perspective on obstacles. When the obstacle is observed from another angle, what seemed unmanageable becomes a tool for change, a catalyst for moving in a new direction.

Shifting the Stone: The Poem

By Kerry Ann Wiley

Within the stone, a door awaits,
Not by avoiding, but by reshaping.
Each jagged edge becomes a curve,
A channel for light to twist and fall.

A shift is small, yet vast,
In the new angle, a world unfolds—
Not what is missing,
But what can emerge
From the quiet center.

The question rises, “What else?”
Not from the visible,
But the hidden thread between—
Where walls blur,
And ideas break free.

No lines are straight,
Only bends and folds.
What is forward is all around,
A new beginning,
A thousand directions.

Through unfamiliar eyes,
The world exhales, and the dark dissolves.
Is it a boundary,
Or an opening to step into?
The ground beneath shifts,
And movement follows.

For those who learn to navigate difference,
The horizon extends, not in front,
But in all directions.
Where space becomes water,
And the flow is endless.

The voice that says “stop“
Is muted here.
The question rings out,
A collective hum of “Why not?”
Turning silence into possibility.

Words hang in the air,
Like vapor, heavy and light.
A single phrase,
A shift in the winds of thought.

A path appeared,
Not of steps, but of possibility,
A new language of ascent.

Independence is not a place to land,
But a current that moves, quiet, unseen.
Measured not in miles,
But in the grace of moving at all.

In the spaces of doubt,
A question takes root:
“What else exists here?”
And the asking itself
Becomes the answer.

The questions asked become the frame,
Each hand that reaches builds the shape.

Every challenge holds its own answer,
Not in the damage,
But in the making of something new—
When leaning toward each other.

The shift isn’t in the space between,
But in the pulse,
In the hands that weave,
In the hearts that merge.
Together, the unseen is created.

In each gesture, a spark.
A word that rises,
A touch that begins again,
Each moment an echo
Of a thousand moments before.

What if it could shift?
The thought flutters in,
A whisper gathering force.
And then, certain,
The pulse of “Why not?”

Not just for one, but for those yet to come—
What is moved today
Carves a path for others,
And in their footsteps,
The road finds its shape.

Not the limits, but the ways.
The question isn’t what can’t be done,
But what can be turned toward.

The Power of Perspective

The poem invites a reconsideration of what it means to face an obstacle. In a world that often prioritizes speed, challenges are frequently seen as hurdles to overcome quickly.

Yet Shifting the Stone offers a different perspective. It doesn’t encourage resistance but transformation. The stone does not vanish; it shifts, revealing hidden paths, fresh perspectives, and opportunities for growth—possibilities that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.

“Within the stone, a door awaits…” This opening line suggests that even the most unyielding obstacles hold untapped potential. Challenges are not just barriers. They are opportunities waiting to be discovered. Yet, unlocking this potential requires more than force—it calls for engagement, patience, and a fresh perspective.

Asking New Questions

One of the most striking themes in Shifting the Stone is the importance of curiosity. The poem suggests that transformation begins with small, powerful questions. Asking “What else?” shifts the focus away from limitations and toward possibilities. This simple, open-ended question becomes a catalyst for discovery, encouraging exploration of what lies beneath the surface of an obstacle.

Rather than asking, “Why is this happening?” the question shifts to “What can emerge here?” This change in perspective reshapes the narrative, turning barriers into opportunities and stillness into growth.

Transformation Beyond the Individual

The poem emphasizes the collective nature of change, illustrating that true transformation occurs when people join forces, rather than striving alone. Change is not solely a personal journey, but a shared process where the efforts of many extend far beyond the individual.

Through collaboration, obstacles are not only overcome for individuals, but also for others, forging paths that can be followed by many. This interconnected approach to transformation relies on the strength of the group, where each person’s contribution helps move what once seemed impossible.

The poem shows how collective action reshapes not just individual experiences, but also demonstrates how united efforts can achieve what was once thought unachievable.

Conclusion: A Shift Toward Possibility

Shifting the Stone reveals that challenges are not mere barriers but invitations to change. Instead of avoiding or resisting, the poem calls for reshaping obstacles into opportunities for growth.

A small shift in perspective—asking “What else?”—uncovers hidden paths and opens new possibilities, breaking through limitations. The collective power of collaboration strengthens this transformation, proving that change thrives when shared.

In the end, it is not the stone that defines the path, but the ability to reshape it. What could be achieved if every obstacle was seen as a chance to create something new?

The Language of Respect: How Thoughtful Choices Make a Difference

Have you ever paused mid-conversation, unsure of what to say next? It’s a moment many of us have experienced, whether due to uncertainty or fear of saying the wrong thing. Now, imagine this scenario with someone who has a disability. How do you approach the situation without inadvertently making things uncomfortable? If this resonates, you are not alone.

These moments happen more often than many realize. Disability isn’t something people often think about until they face it directly. In potential moments of uncertainty, they might freeze, stumble over their words, or even avoid the situation entirely. This happens frequently—someone talks to the person with me instead of me, or assumes they know what I need without asking.

A lot of this comes from good intentions. Most people genuinely want to show respect, but their uncertainty can make things feel awkward. What I—and many others with disabilities—really want isn’t pity or awkward praise. We simply want to be treated like anyone else.

Ultimately, it is not about following a set of rules. Instead, it is about making small and mindful choices: choosing to ask instead of assuming, and respecting personal space.

Embracing a “People First, Labels Second” approach ensures that we respect individuals for who they are, not by their disabilities. Here are some simple tips to help foster a more inclusive and respectful environment for everyone:

People First, Labels Second

Focus on the individual, not their disability.

Treat people as individuals—not as their disability. Focus on the person, not their condition, recognizing their identity beyond their disability. For example, if you’re a chef, you wouldn’t want to be called “that cooking person,” as if your job defined your entire identity. Similarly, referring to someone as “a person with a disability” focuses on them as individuals rather than on their condition.

Ask, Don’t Assume

Respect unique abilities by seeking understanding.

Each person’s abilities are different, and assumptions based on limited information can be misleading. For example, if someone assumed you couldn’t swim simply because they’ve never seen you in the water, it would feel unfair. Disabilities vary greatly, and everyone has their own individual experience with them.

Disabilities come in many different forms, and each person’s experience is unique. To better understand and support others, consider asking open-ended questions like, “What works best for you?” or “How can I make this easier for you?”

Always Ask Before Offering Help

Respect independence by seeking consent.

Honor independence by requesting permission before offering assistance. Offering help is thoughtful. However, taking action without asking first can sometimes cause unintended harm. For instance, imagine someone with a mobility challenge trying to open a door. If another person steps in to push the door without checking first, it could throw them off balance or disrupt their efforts. While the intention is kind, this unexpected assistance might startle or unsteady them. Asking first ensures that your support is both wanted and genuinely helpful.

Respect Personal Space

Treat assistive devices as personal belongings.

Please respect assistive devices as personal items and only touch them if invited. Assistive devices are part of someone’s personal space, similar to a purse or backpack, and should not be touched without permission.

Avoid leaning on a wheelchair, handling a cane, or interacting with a service animal unless invited. These devices should be respected as extensions of the person’s autonomy.

Speak Directly to the Person

Engage with individuals, not their companions.

Speak directly to the individual, not their companion or interpreter. This demonstrates respect and ensures the person feels included in the conversation. At a restaurant, for example, it is dismissive and isolating when the server talks only to a friend about the meal.

Whether someone uses a communication device, sign language, or support from a caregiver, making eye contact and speaking directly to them shows respect, consideration, and inclusion.

Be Patient with Communication

Allow time for individuals to express themselves fully.

Give individuals time to express themselves and ask for clarification if needed. Communication takes many forms, and it’s important to give people the time they need to express themselves without rushing or interrupting.

Resist the urge to finish sentences or fill in pauses. If something isn’t clear, it’s okay to politely ask for clarification—asking is always better than making assumptions.

Don’t Overpraise or Patronize

Celebrate achievements genuinely without overemphasis.

Celebrate achievements sincerely, but avoid overemphasizing everyday tasks to keep things respectful and natural. Everyday actions don’t typically call for applause.

For example, imagine clapping for making a cup of coffee or answering the phone—it might feel out of place. Or consider applauding someone for picking up groceries—it would seem more awkward than supportive.

While celebrating milestones is meaningful, treating routine tasks as part of daily life helps maintain respect and avoids making someone feel singled out.

Avoid Pity

Promote equity by avoiding pitying remarks.

Foster equity by showing recognition and appreciation, rather than pity. Pity doesn’t create empowerment; equity does. For instance, telling someone, “You’re so brave to be here today,” can sometimes feel unintentionally uncomfortable. A more supportive approach might be recognizing their presence with a simple, “I’m glad to see you today.”

Instead of focusing on courage, you might say, “It’s great to see you so engaged.” Acknowledging their efforts by saying, “I admire how you’re always prepared,” fosters empowerment without making them feel singled out.

Be Aware of Accessible Environments

Ensure spaces are inclusive and accessible to all.

Accessibility ensures everyone can participate by providing easy access. Imagine being invited to a party but finding the only entrance is locked, with no way in—that’s how inaccessible spaces can feel.

Check for features like ramps, wide pathways, and accessible seating to ensure everyone can comfortably enter and move around. Also, be mindful not to block parking spaces or restrooms designated for accessibility, as they play a crucial role in helping others feel included.

Respect Service Animals

Understand that service animals are working, not pets.


Service animals are on duty, so please ask the owner before interacting with them. Service animals aren’t pets—they are working. Distracting them is like interrupting someone on the job.

Avoid petting, feeding, or calling out to a service animal. If you want to interact, always ask the owner first.

Mind Your Words

Use respectful and appropriate language at all times.

Language can uplift or harm, so using respectful terms and asking for preferences shows thoughtfulness and respect. Terms like “accessible parking” are respectful, while outdated ones like “crippled” or “suffering from” are not.

If you’re unsure, simply ask, “What terms do you prefer?” Thoughtful word choices are key to showing respect.

Don’t Stare or Ask Intrusive Questions

Maintain privacy and respect personal boundaries.

Respect privacy by avoiding intrusive questions and treating others with the consideration you would expect yourself. Curiosity is natural, but it’s important to express it with respect. For example, imagine someone staring at your shoes or asking, “Why is your hair like that?”—it can and would be uncomfortable.

Consider someone inquiring about your personal challenges in a way that feels too intrusive, like asking, “What’s wrong with you?” Focus on meaningful, respectful conversations that don’t invade personal space. Treating others with the same consideration and respect one would expect for themselves helps foster a more positive and inclusive atmosphere.

Don’t Assume All Disabilities Are Visible

Acknowledge that many disabilities are hidden yet significant.

Not all disabilities are visible, so it’s important to be thoughtful, support accommodations, and avoid dismissive comments. Disabilities, such as chronic pain or mental health conditions, aren’t always visible. Think of an iceberg—most of it is hidden, yet it’s still significant.

Avoid comments like “You don’t look disabled,” as they can feel dismissive of someone’s experience. Similarly, never question someone’s need for accommodations, as those adjustments are important for supporting their full participation.

Educate Yourself

Commit to continuous learning to support and foster inclusion.

Support inclusion by continuously learning through resources that expand knowledge and awareness. Learning about disabilities is like mastering a new skill—the more knowledge you gain, the better prepared you become.

For instance, you might read books or articles written by individuals with disabilities to gain insight into their experiences. Listening to podcasts, attending panels, or even taking courses on accessibility and inclusion can broaden your perspective and help you support others as an empathetic and effective ally.

Conclusion: The Small Things Matter

Meaningful interaction relies on empathy, respect, and clear communication. A “People First, Labels Second” approach shifts the focus to the individual, recognizing their unique experiences. Simple actions—asking rather than assuming, respecting boundaries, speaking directly, and listening with intention, can make conversations and interactions more natural and respectful.

Ensuring accessibility, understanding the role of service animals, and being open to learning are practical ways to promote equity and show respect. Small, intentional choices build stronger connections and create an environment where everyone feels valued.

Resources

Blue Like That: A Shade of What Lingers

Blue is often a color that lives in the silence—the spaces between words, actions, and intentions. It is present in the hesitation after “I didn’t mean to,” or the pause following “I’m fine.”

It isn’t the sharp ache of something breaking, but the softer strain of something unfinished. It is the weight of a breath held too long, a question left unasked, time slipping by unnoticed until it is already gone.

The poem encourages us to reflect on the spaces that shape our lives. It urges us to consider what lingers when words fail or when time has slipped away. Blue, in this context, is no longer just a color. It surpasses its ordinary definition and becomes a feeling, an atmosphere, a subtle presence that weaves through the everyday.

It suggests something unspoken, something deeply felt yet difficult to articulate. This presence exists in the pauses and silences that frame our experiences. In these still moments, we are invited to confront the weight of what we carry—our memories, our emotions, and the ineffable truths that define us.

Blue Like That
By Kerry Ann Wiley

Sky blue, azure, violet blue,
a bruise stretched across too much time.
A blue that never heals but learns to fade,
replaced by colors that sting differently:
amber, a taste of regret,
gray, like the sound of rain hitting a window never opened,
pale green, the almost-forgiveness.

Sky blue. Azure. Violet blue.
Not the blue of oceans or eyes, those blues are too eager, too visible.
This blue lingers in the corner of a room,
unnoticed until shadows stretch.

It stains the underside of clouds
after the sun fades,
when the air lies too still, too heavy.

It is the blue of a breath held too long,
ribs aching for the exhale that never comes.

The blue of something breaking,
not loud enough to call it shattered.
It waits in the silence,
soft but cold,
like the last light slipping off a glacier.

Blue like that.

A shade that doesn’t ask to be named but lingers anyway.
In the space between voices, where nothing is said as it should be.
In the pause after “I’m fine,” or “I didn’t mean to.”

Not a blue that washes out,
though scrubbed with reasons, good intentions, and forgetting.
It stays in the stitching of a shirt,
in the corners of photographs,
in the sharp edges of a name.

Sky blue. Azure. Violet blue.
It is the color of a door left half-closed,
a question no one dares to ask.
The shade of words swallowed down,
of things left undone.

Did it grow slowly,
creeping through the cracks, waiting for its moment?
Or did it strike all at once—a flash, a spark, a spill?

No answers.
Only the weight of it.
The heavy, hollow, endless blue.

Blue like that.


This blue settles into life’s unspoken moments, lingering where words are left unsaid, actions undone. Instead, it waits—persistent, a subtle ache woven into the fabric of a day, a year, a lifetime.

The Weight of the Unfinished

What makes this blue so familiar is its connection to the everyday. It isn’t tied to a single event or loss. It is the accumulation of all those things left unresolved: a conversation that drifts off before it finds its end, an apology that gets stuck in the throat, a goodbye that didn’t feel like a goodbye until much later.

This blue doesn’t arrive suddenly, nor does it take your breath away. Instead, it creeps into unnoticed spaces, lingering where vulnerability hides. At times, it settles in all at once, not as a wound, but as a bruise that fades yet never fully fades away.


While blue anchors the poem, it isn’t the only hue. Regret takes on the warmth of amber. It feels like something once full of potential, is now altered by what might have been. Amber doesn’t burn. It simmers—a quiet reminder that some mistakes grow heavier the longer we carry them.

The Shades of What We Carry

Gray is softer. It’s the sound of rain against a window left untouched, a reminder of something missed. Not by choice, but because the moment passed too quickly. Gray doesn’t sting. It lingers quietly in the background, steady and unyielding.

Then there is the hue of forgiveness. Not quite forgiveness, but something close—softer, easier to hold. It lingers on the edge, just out of reach, never fully materializing. It doesn’t promise resolution; it simply waits, uncertain yet hopeful, as if it might one day take form.

These colors blend, not perfectly or neatly, but in the messy way emotions do. Regret bleeds into longing. Longing shifts into hope, and then back again. The mix of these colors mirrors how emotions are never simple or separate. Regret, longing, hope, and forgiveness overlap, intertwining and changing. They reflect how our feelings are layered, complex, and connected. This complexity is what makes them feel so real.


What makes Blue Like That so powerful is its honesty. It doesn’t try to fix what’s unfinished or resolve the silences. It doesn’t promise that the empty spaces will be filled or that time will undo what has been left undone. Instead, it lets the weight of the unsaid and unresolved simply exist.

Why It Stays

This blue isn’t about despair. It is a subtle burden, the kind that comes with living alongside what can’t be undone. It is about accepting that life moves forward, even when something still lingers behind.

Blue Like That doesn’t push us to find answers. Instead, it encourages us to sit with our emotions, acknowledging their value without the need for justification. It reminds us that the unfinished, the unspoken, and the lingering spaces are not flaws or failures. They don’t define us, but they shape how we see, feel, and remember. This blue doesn’t need a name or a solution. It exists as it is—not to be resolved, but to be noticed and allowed to remain.

The poem leans into the power of the unspoken, recognizing the weight of what is left unresolved. The blue becomes a symbol of life’s unanswered questions, its pauses, and its incomplete stories. It is not about offering solutions but creating space to sit with the unfinished moments that shape us.

In Blue Like That, silence carries weight. Hesitations linger, and unspoken truths press into the gaps left behind. Blue becomes more than a color. It transforms into a feeling, settling gently into the spaces of what remains unresolved. It doesn’t ask for answers.It simply waits—asking only to be seen.

That is the gift of Blue Like That. It doesn’t tie things up neatly or offer closure. Instead, it opens a door. It invites us to step into the mess, to sit with the unanswered and the undone. To feel it—not to fix it—and let it become part of us.

Fragments of the Unspoken: A Reflection on Rediscovery

Have you ever found yourself at a loss for words when they mattered most? Perhaps you tried to explain, but the right words wouldn’t come. Or maybe it wasn’t about words at all—it was something deeper, a feeling you couldn’t quite shape or express. That disconnect leaves a frustrating gap between what you feel and what you can communicate, leaving you unsure how to close it.

This gap sits at the heart of Fragments of the Unspoken. The poem captures the fragmented process of rediscovering a voice that feels distant but not entirely gone. It explores the moments when expression feels out of reach and shows how, piece by piece, we can begin to find our way back.

Fragments of the Unspoken

By Kerry Ann Wiley

Even the horizon falters—
wavering between violet and ash,
its shape uncertain,
its edges undone.

And yet, beneath the murk,
something stirs—
a breath, faint but persistent.
Not sound, not silence,
but the space between:
a thread, twisting, fraying,
pulling itself to the surface.

Ocean blue—
it carries no answers,
only the rhythm of what is lost
returning in fragments.
A depth that does not hold,
but remembers.

Transformation in Fragments

At its core, Fragments of the Unspoken reflects on the process of losing and rediscovering aspects of oneself—be it voice, confidence, or connection.

The poem acknowledges that transformation is gradual and often fragmented. Through the imagery of shifting horizons and the rhythmic ocean, the poem shows how growth can emerge in small moments, rising from uncertainty.

Rather than presenting sudden clarity, the poem suggests that what feels lost lingers, waiting to resurface. When it does, it carries the weight of memory, the uncertainty of what was, and the strength shaped by change.

Navigating Uncertainty: The Horizon as a Symbol

The poem opens with a vivid image of a faltering horizon:

“Even the horizon falters—
wavering between violet and ash,
its shape uncertain,
its edges undone.”

The horizon, traditionally a symbol of clarity and stability, dissolves into ambiguity here. Its edges fray, wavering between colors and shapes. This imagery mirrors the disorientation experienced when something reliable—like one’s sense of self—becomes unclear.

Yet, the horizon doesn’t disappear completely. Even as it falters, it persists in a new form, suggesting that renewal is possible even in doubt. The horizon reflects uncertainty, reminding us that what feels lost can still remain, though in a different form.

Ocean Rhythms: Rediscovery in Pieces

Complementing the horizon’s symbolism, the ocean in the poem represents the process of rediscovery—fragmented, rhythmic, and deeply connected to memory:

“Ocean blue—
it carries no answers,
only the rhythm of what is lost
returning in fragments.
A depth that does not hold,
but remembers.”

The ocean provides no immediate clarity. Instead, it holds memories, mirroring the slow, rhythmic process of rediscovery. Like the tide, what is lost returns in fragments—pieces that slowly come together to form something new.

The references to ocean’s depth is particularly poignant because it doesn’t “hold,” implying impermanence, yet it “remembers,” preserving what was lost and returning it transformed. This suggests that rediscovery involves blending the past with the present, allowing what was lost to become something both familiar and new.

The portrayal is powerful because it reflects the complex nature of loss and change. The ocean’s inability to “hold” indicates that nothing is permanent, and what is lost can’t be fully kept. Yet, its “memory” shows that even without permanence, there’s a process of preservation and change. This evokes the emotional depth of rediscovery, where the past reshapes and returns, stirring feelings of nostalgia, change, and renewal.

Piecing Together the Fragments

Fragments of the Unspoken conveys that growth and rediscovery are not linear. The voice that once felt lost lingers beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to rise. When it resurfaces, it is altered—carrying echoes of silence and uncertainty, tempered by the rhythm of change.

The closing lines reflect this:

“A depth that does not hold,
but remembers.”

These words suggest that transformation isn’t about regaining what was lost in its original form. It’s about finding fragments and embracing their evolution shaped by memory and time.

Conclusion: The Rhythm of Change

Fragments of the Unspoken captures the gradual process of rediscovery. Through the imagery of shifting horizons and the rhythmic ocean, the poem illustrates that what we lose doesn’t vanish entirely. It lingers, carried by memory and shaped by experience, waiting to resurface in fragments.

It is not about reclaiming what was lost, but about accepting the fragments that resurface, shaped by time and memory. These pieces help form a new understanding—one that is both familiar and altered.

Change unfolds gradually, carrying the weight of what has passed and the potential of what lies ahead. What once seemed lost isn’t gone; it lingers, waiting to return, reshaped. Rediscovery isn’t about regaining completeness, but about embracing what resurfaces. Over time, these fragments come together, offering a clearer sense of who we are and what we have become.

Seasons of the Pear Tree: A Reflection on Time and Change

There are times when everything slows down, and the pace of life becomes more deliberate. In these moments, the world feels simpler, steadier, and more meaningful.

Age Six: Sticky Hands, Open Skies

When I was six years old, the days felt endless, slow and steady. Time was a distant idea, something I barely noticed. In the yard, an old pear tree stood, its roots deep and firm. Every year, its branches sagged with heavy fruit, a quiet constant as the seasons came and went.

Picking pears was simple. My small hands reached for what I could, biting into the soft flesh. Juice ran down my wrist, sticking to my skin. I didn’t mind. The cores, half-eaten, were left on the ground, forgotten, or buried in the grass.

Afterward, I sat beneath the tree, the cool earth pressing against my legs. I watched the clouds drift lazily across the sky, always shifting. One moment, they were a whale; the next, a train. My thoughts followed their lead, light and free. The pear tree did not seem remarkable to me back then. It was just there—part of a world I had yet to understand.

Age Twenty-Two: The Pace Quickens

The ease of childhood gave way to the hurried, unrelenting pace of young adulthood. By twenty-two, life seemed to accelerate, leaving me to muddle through. The world grew louder, driven by a pace I couldn’t quite keep up with. Everything moved with purpose, though I often stumbled along, trying to make sense of it.

The pear tree stood where it always had, but it had faded into the background. It was a presence I noticed without truly seeing it. Picking the fruit had become second nature, almost mindless. Juice trickled down my wrist, though I hardly noticed. I wiped it away, my thoughts already on what came next.

Sitting beneath the tree no longer felt like a break from the world. I didn’t tilt my head back to watch the sky like I used to. My eyes stayed down, focused on the path ahead. The future wasn’t something to sit back and admire—it was something I had to chase.

Age Forty-Nine: What Remains

At 49, I no longer try to control life’s pace. The pear tree is still there, its branches thicker, its roots deeper. I still eat the fruit when it’s in season, but I take my time with it now. The juice from the pear runs down my wrist, and I let it.

Sitting under the tree doesn’t feel like searching anymore. The shade is enough. The clouds still drift by. Their shapes matter less now than the fact that they are there.

The questions that once pressed at 22—what I should do, who I should be—have softened over time. The questions don’t demand answers anymore. They just need space to exist.

The Thread That Ties It Together

At six, the world felt a little scattered—a sticky pear, a passing cloud. By twenty-two, I tried to make sense of it, searching for meaning. At forty-nine, I have learned to let things come together in their own time. They are what they are, shaped by time, without force.

The pear tree stands, its roots deeper, its shade still cool. The juice still runs down my wrist, and the years feel lighter when I take a moment to notice what has always been here.

Step into 2025: Share Your Thoughts with Wiley’s Walk

Greetings Wiley’s Walk Readers,

I hope 2025 is off to a great start for each of you. I am reaching out to gather your thoughts and feedback. What topics would you like to see explored on Wiley’s Walk (www.wileyswalk.com)?

Are there specific stories, challenges, or insights you’re interested in? Your input is invaluable in shaping content that resonates with our community.

To spark ideas, here are a few topics that might interest you:

  • Personal Narratives on Living with Cerebral Palsy (CP) and Other Disabilities: Sharing personal experiences and challenges faced while living with CP or other disabilities to foster understanding and connection.
  • Mental Health and Disability: Exploring the intersection of anxiety, stress, and living with a disability, along with strategies for building emotional well-being.
  • Inclusive Design and Accessibility: Discussing the importance of inclusive design—creating physical and digital spaces that everyone can use comfortably—and how it impacts daily life for people with disabilities.
  • Resilience and Adaptability: Resilience refers to the ability to recover from challenges, while adaptability is the capacity to adjust to new circumstances. Both are vital for overcoming daily obstacles and embracing change.
  • Advocacy and Awareness: Advocacy means actively supporting or promoting a cause, such as accessibility or disability rights, to inspire action and positive change. Awareness, while important, is about educating others to create understanding as a foundation for inclusion.
  • Navigating Social Perceptions: Examining how societal perceptions and stereotypes affect individuals with disabilities and sharing strategies to challenge and reshape these views.
  • Educational Insights: Sharing lessons and experiences from educating others about disabilities, inclusion, and how small changes can make a big difference in creating a more equitable world.

Do any of these resonate with you? Or is there something else you’d like us to focus on?

We value your feedback! You can share your thoughts and ideas in one of the following ways:

From personal narratives about living with disabilities to discussions on inclusive design and mental health, your voice is crucial in creating a more understanding and connected world. Engage with us on topics like resilience, advocacy, and the nuances of social perceptions that affect the daily lives of individuals with disabilities. Join the conversation at www.wileyswalk.com and help guide our content to inspire and educate—because every step on this journey counts. #WileysWalk

I look forward to hearing from you and creating meaningful content together.

Warm regards,
Kerry

Lending a Hand from Afar: How to Support California Wildfire Recovery

The California wildfires have scorched landscapes and ravaged communities. They have left an indelible mark on countless lives. Homes have been reduced to ashes, Individuals and families have been displaced, and ecosystems upended. From afar, the magnitude of such devastation can feel overwhelming. However, it prompts an essential question: How can we help?

While the challenges of rebuilding may seem daunting, there are clear, tangible ways to support recovery efforts. Even from miles away, each small action adds up to making a difference.

Reflecting on the Loss

The impact of these fires reaches far beyond the visible damage. Individuals and families face the uncertainty of rebuilding their lives. Many are struggling to find shelter and replace what has been lost. Even amid such overwhelming loss, there is a reminder that support can take many forms. Small acts, when combined, can help foster healing and rebuild hope.

At Wiley’s Walk (www.wileyswalk.com), the goal is to share resources to help people with disabilities access the support they need during disasters like the wildfires.

Below are organizations offering direct assistance.

Support for People with Disabilities in Wildfire Recovery

California Foundation for Independent Living Centers (CFILC)
CFILC works with local independent living centers to help people with disabilities during emergencies. Their services include evacuation support, emergency aid, and ensuring accessibility during disasters.
Website: https://disabilitydisasteraccess.org/

The Richard Devylder Disaster Relief Fund
This fund helps replace lost assistive devices, tools, and technology for people with disabilities. It also offers temporary housing assistance, such as covering motel stays, and resources through the Community Wildfire Safety Program.
Website: https://disabilitydisasteraccess.org/wildfires/

Financial Support for Wildfire Recovery

If you are looking to support wildfire recovery efforts, consider donating to these trusted organizations that are making a meaningful impact:

California Community Foundation’s Wildfire Recovery Fund
The California Community Foundation’s (CCF) Wildfire Recovery Fund has been helping wildfire-affected communities in Los Angeles County since 2003. The fund focuses on rebuilding homes, restoring livelihoods, providing mental health services, and enhancing emergency response systems. It works closely with local organizations and government agencies to prioritize under-served communities and ensure aid reaches those who need it most.
Website: https://www.calfund.org/funds/wildfire-recovery-fund/

American Red Cross
The American Red Cross provides emergency shelter, meals, and emotional support to families impacted by disasters. Their disaster response efforts help communities recover and rebuild during crises like wildfires.
Website: https://www.redcross.org/

Supporting First Responders

First responders risk their lives to protect communities during wildfires. Supporting organizations that provide them with essential tools and resources ensures they can do their job effectively:

Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation
The Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation (LAFD Foundation) supports 3,500 firefighters and paramedics of the LAFD by funding essential tools, equipment, and programs not covered by the city’s budget. Key areas of support include providing advanced firefighting gear, funding health and wellness initiatives like cancer prevention and mental health programs, and improving fire station conditions through the Adopt-A-Fire-Station program. The Foundation also supports youth education and leadership programs for future firefighters. Donations directly enhance firefighter safety, readiness, and efficiency.

Website: https://www.supportlafd.org/

The California Fire Foundation, a nonprofit established in 1987 by California Professional Firefighters, provides emotional and financial support to families of fallen firefighters, firefighters, and the communities they serve. The Foundation maintains the California Firefighters Memorial at the State Capitol, honoring fallen firefighters with an annual ceremony. It supports firefighter families through the California Firefighters Benevolent Fund, educational scholarships for children of fallen firefighters, and financial assistance for firefighter candidates. Additionally, its SAVE Program provides $250 gift cards to disaster survivors for immediate necessities like food, clothing, and medicine.

Website: https://www.cafirefoundation.org/

Helping Families in Need

Wildfires often leave families without basic necessities. These organizations provide immediate aid to those in need:

Baby2Baby
Baby2Baby supports children affected by disasters by providing essentials like diapers, clothing, and hygiene products. Their efforts help families meet their immediate needs and recover more quickly.
Website: https://baby2baby.org/

Los Angeles Regional Food Bank
The Los Angeles Regional Food Bank distributes groceries and meals to families facing food insecurity due to wildfires. Their work is critical for those who have lost access to basic resources.
Website: https://www.lafoodbank.org/

Caring for Animals and Wildlife

Wildfires can displace and injure animals, leaving them vulnerable. These organizations are dedicated to caring for pets, livestock, and wildlife during disasters:

Pasadena Humane
Pasadena Humane reunites lost pets with their owners and provides care for displaced animals, ensuring their safety and well-being during emergencies.
Website: https://pasadenahumane.org/

Staying Informed and Raising Awareness

Staying informed about climate change and advocating for better policies can help prevent future disasters and improve recovery efforts:

The Climate Reality Project
The Climate Reality Project raises awareness about the impacts of climate change and advocates for policies that reduce the risks of natural disasters like wildfires.
Website: https://www.climaterealityproject.org/

Your Support Makes a Difference

Even from a distance, your support is invaluable. Whether through a donation, spreading awareness, or simply staying connected to the stories of those affected, each step makes a meaningful difference. The road to recovery will take time, but together, we can ease the burdens of those who need it most.

The Point of It All: Redefining Inclusion with Education and Duct Tape

Educating and teaching have always been integral to my life, although not through traditional classrooms or structured lessons, but as a natural part of navigating life with Cerebral Palsy and mobility challenges.

This unique perspective often means that when the world fails to understand one’s reality, sharing knowledge becomes essential. In doing so, the lesson is not just taught; it is embodied.

Wiley’s Walk was born from a lifetime of experiences and a simple goal: to spark meaningful conversations about inclusion. It is a space to explore what inclusion truly means and how people navigate a world that doesn’t always make space for everyone. Through stories and reflections, it highlights the ways people overcome challenges to foster understanding, create connection, and find a sense of belonging.

This blog is for anyone who has faced challenges. These challenges might stem from a disability, the way others perceive them, or simply being underestimated. It is for those who, despite everything, hold on to the belief that there is always a way forward. Even when the path ahead seems uncertain, they keep going, knowing that progress, no matter how small, is still progress.

For me, that belief is rooted in one of my earliest memories of confronting and educating about difference.

Finding My Voice at Five

I was five or six years old, standing in front of my classmates. My hands gripped my walking devices and the hem of my shirt, twisting it nervously, as twenty pairs of eyes stared at me. Their unspoken questions hung in the air, so loud they felt like words.

“Why does she walk like that?”
“Why are her legs so stiff?”
“What do words like spasticity and rigidity even mean?”

At the time, I didn’t have the vocabulary to answer them—not in a way that would make sense. However, I knew I wanted them to understand. Their stares weren’t mean-spirited, but they burned all the same. So, I did what made sense to me: I asked someone else to explain.

I turned to my physical therapist, someone who had the words I couldn’t find. There was no hesitation in my request, just a simple desire to help my classmates see me for who I was—not as something unfamiliar to decode, but as someone navigating the same world in my own unique way

“Spasticity is when muscles stay tight all the time, like they’re stuck,” he told the class with a calm, confident voice. “Rigidity makes it hard for mucles to stretch or move the way you want.”

Those words explained my Cerebral Palsy, a condition that affects muscle control and coordination, but that wasn’t what truly mattered. As I stood there, watching their expressions shift, I realized it wasn’t about the medical terms or technical explanations.

It was about creating a connection, about replacing the uncertainty in their eyes with something real and relatable. That moment wasn’t about delivering a flawless explanation or finding the perfect words. It was about being seen—not as a mystery to figure out or someone set apart, but as someone they could understand and include.

I did not realize it then, but that moment shaped how I approached every challenge that came after. Whether it was joining playground games or navigating crowded classrooms, I refused to let my differences keep me on the sidelines. When things didn’t go as planned, I found ways to adapt.

Sometimes that meant reaching for duct tape. I used it to secure sports equipment to my walking devices or modify classroom tools to suit my needs. Over time, the duct tape became a familiar part of my world. It wasn’t always perfect, but it got the job done—a simple, practical solution that turned obstacles into possibilities.

A Question That Shook Me

Even with my ability to adapt, there was a moment I wasn’t ready for—a question that caught me off guard and unsettled me deeply. By my thirties, I believed I was skilled at helping others understand difference.

I had spent years as a living example—showing people how to make space, advocating in rooms not designed for someone like me, and fighting to join conversations that might have otherwise excluded me.

Then, without warning, a question stopped me cold. It came from someone close, someone I trusted—and that made it cut even deeper.

“Why did you bother?”

Their tone wasn’t cruel, but the sting was undeniable.

“When the faculty took time to work with you, we all had to wait. In the end, what was the point?”

The words hit like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. Decades of adapting, advocating, and sensitizing others about difference—had it all been for nothing? Did any of it even matter?

That question lingered. It forced me to reconsider everything I thought I knew about educating others. Had the people I believed understood me ever truly seen me at all?

Lessons From Imperfection

It took some time to sort through those feelings. Slowly, I began to see something important. Educating and sensitizing others about difference isn’t about perfect explanations or easy fixes. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. It is about showing up again and again, even when it feels like no one is listening.

The duct tape that held my sports equipment wasn’t just functional. It told a story. It said, “This isn’t perfect, but it works. And I’m not stopping.” Over time, it became a deeper reminder. Adaptability isn’t just about finding a way to get by. It’s a way of saying, “I’m here,” even when the world isn’t exactly built for someone like me.

That lesson influenced more than just how I faced challenges—it changed how I thought about inclusion itself. Adaptability, I realized, isn’t just something you rely on to get through. It is a statement. It is a refusal to be limited by assumptions or circumstances.

In education, imperfection holds its own kind of power. A teacher pausing mid-lesson to say, “This isn’t working—let’s try something else,” isn’t just solving a problem. They are teaching something far more valuable. Mistakes are not dead ends. They are part of the process.

Inclusion works the same way. A design that doesn’t quite fit or a system that leaves someone out isn’t a failure. It is a chance to step back, reassess, and try again. Each adjustment sends a message: You are seen. You matter. Let’s find a way.

Agency Builds Bridges

How challenges are handled speaks volumes. People notice whether obstacles are met with creativity or frustration, intention or indifference. Pity creates distance. It says, “I feel bad for you because you’re over there, and I’m over here.”

Agency, on the other hand, builds bridges. It says, “You know what you need, and I’m here to listen.” It respects autonomy and empowers people to take the lead in their own lives.

Assumptions about how to help can sometimes feel stifling—a hand placed on a mobility device without permission or a decision made without input. Even small, well-meaning actions can unintentionally take away someone’s voice.

Asking questions, however, opens another door. A simple, “Do you need help?” or “What works best for you?” changes everything. It is not just about offering help—it is about offering trust. That trust fosters connection, and that connection becomes the foundation for true inclusion.

Why It’s Always Been Worth It

Educating others about difference isn’t about drawing lines between “us” and “them.” It is about discovering the places where our stories meet, where experiences overlap, and where understanding begins to grow.

Difference doesn’t have to separate. It can open the door to connection. It is in the shared laugh over an improvised solution that works. It is in the moment someone says, “That reminds me of something I’ve experienced,” and suddenly, the gap between you feels smaller.

That question—“What was the point?”—still surfaces from time to time. Now, it carries less weight because the answer is clear. The point was never just to be included.

It wasn’t simply about proving I could belong or leveling the playing field. It was about something bigger: showing that the playing field itself matters—that everyone deserves a chance to stand on it, to participate, and to thrive, even if the space wasn’t originally designed for them.

The process of helping others understand this hasn’t always been easy. It’s slow. It’s messy. It’s imperfect. But it’s also necessary. Because understanding isn’t the end goal—it’s the starting point. It’s the beginning of something transformative.

Maybe I’ve been asking the wrong question all along. The question isn’t, “What was the point?”

The real question is, “What comes next?” And even more importantly, “How can I help build it?”

Lessons from Driftwood

Ever tried holding sand in your hand? At first, it feels steady, something solid that can be held onto. Then, slowly, it starts slipping away—grain by grain. The harder the grip, the faster it falls.

Life can feel like that. Things shift, whether wanted or not. Sometimes, change is loud and impossible to miss. More often, it’s subtle. Like erosion, gradual and steady, pulling away until, one day, everything looks and feels different.

This kind of change touches everyone. A role that once defined everything starts to fade. A routine that once provided structure no longer fits. Even the version of yourself that once felt solid begins to feel distant. The ground doesn’t disappear all at once. It crumbles, piece by piece, leaving you to figure out how to stand on something entirely new.

Adapting isn’t about holding on tighter to what is slipping away. It is about learning to move in a new way. Disability, chronic illness, and unexpected detours in life all push for this kind of shift.

There is no going back to what was. Yet there’s also no stopping what comes next. Sometimes, that next thing turns out to be more valuable—more fulfilling or meaningful in the moment—than what’s been left behind.

At the heart of Driftwood, there’s a tree—strong, rooted, steady by the river’s edge. It represents stability, something unshakable. Yet, even the most solid ground doesn’t stay firm forever. Over time, it begins to shift. Storms roll in, and the roots start to weaken. The fall doesn’t happen suddenly or violently. It unfolds gradually, piece by piece, a quiet collapse. Eventually, the river claims it.

Adapting to change is never easy, and sometimes, it is not about holding on. It’s about letting go and learning to move in a new direction. The shift can be subtle, like erosion, slowly pulling away until everything feels different. This concept is reflected in the poem, Driftwood.

Driftwood

By Kerry Ann Wiley

Tall once on the river’s edge,
Roots knotted deep in earth’s steady pledge.
The soil whispered promises it could not keep,
Chipped away by waters that refused to sleep.

Bit by bit, the ground gave way,
A quiet erosion, day by day.
Currents laughed, their song so benign,
Until the pull unraveled what once was mine.

Storms tore branches, splintered the core,
Winds howled, rains claimed more and more.
The weight of time began to press,
A slow collapse into nothingness.

Fallen, silent, into the stream,
The river carried what remained of the dream.
A fragment, a remnant, floating free,
A piece of what was meant to be.

Yet the drift is not an end at all;
The waves reshape what storms let fall.
Every scar speaks of battles survived,
Each grain a mark of having thrived.

Some see ruin, a form undone,
A fractured shell beneath the sun.
But others find beauty in battered lines,
The art of endurance through endless tides.

The river asks nothing of what remains,
Only to dance through its shifting veins.
Not whole, not broken—just set adrift,
A soul transformed by the water’s gift.

The river pressed close, whispering low,
Soft at first, then unrelenting.
What held firm began to loosen,
A quiet surrender to the constant pull.

The ground beneath was once a promise,
Rich, steady, full of weight.
But promises thin under patient hands,
Eroding grain by grain,
Until there is nothing left to hold.

Storms tore through with a cruel precision,
Branches snapped, torn free without apology.
The air grew heavy with each breath of wind,
And even the strongest roots began to fray.

Time leaned heavy on aging bark,
Not in leaps, but in whispers.
The weight of years became the final blow,
And what stood tall finally gave way.

What remains drifts through restless waters,
Not as it was, but not erased.
The shape is different, yet still alive,
Carved anew by hands unseen.

Some would see ruin in the splinters,
A story of what was lost.
But there is beauty in the softened edges,
In the way even broken wood floats.

The river asks no questions of the fallen,
Only carries it onward,
A silent witness to the unmaking
And the quiet, endless becoming.

The poem starts with collapse. The poem opens with a tree’s gradual decline. Once strong, it is slowly worn down by time, water, and storms. This erosion feels inevitable, happening slowly as its roots and structure steadily weaken.

Ultimately, the weight of time becomes undeniable. Pressure builds steadily, leaving little room for resistance. In the end, the tree can no longer hold its ground and gives way.

Yet, the story doesn’t end there. The driftwood—the remnants of the tree—doesn’t disappear. Instead, the river carries it forward, reshaping its form. Splinters, softened edges, and scars all tell a story of survival. What is left is different, but it’s still alive. Still moving.

The poem doesn’t pretend the driftwood is whole. It bears the marks of everything it has endured. These marks are part of its character. “Each grain a mark of having been.” The scars don’t lessen the value of what remains. Instead, they add to it. The poem highlights that the driftwood’s imperfections enhance its beauty, reflecting its journey through change.

Interestingly, the river doesn’t demand anything from the driftwood. It simply carries it forward, allowing it to stay as it is. There’s no effort to change its shape or return it to its original form. The poem shows how the river lets the driftwood exist in its new state, embracing the natural changes without trying to fix what was lost.

This is where the poem feels raw and real. It doesn’t push a story of recovery or a return to the past. Instead, it lets the driftwood exist in its new form. Different, but not less. That’s the lesson. Adapting isn’t about rebuilding what is lost. It is about creating something new from what remains. Driftwood isn’t less than the tree—it simply changes. Its different form holds its own significance.

The line, “Not whole, not broken—just set adrift,” reflects a deeper reality. Life isn’t black and white. It is not about being completely intact or entirely falling apart. Instead, it’s about the spaces in between. The driftwood continues to float. It bears its scars, yet it moves forward.

The poem explores how small, gradual shifts can shape who or what someone becomes. Like driftwood that keeps moving forward despite its marks, experiences leave their impressions while creating new paths. With everything always shifting, a question comes to mind: How can the past be honored while moving toward what’s next?