Grace does not arrive cleanly. It does not announce itself or ask permission. It rarely looks like virtue when it first appears. More often, grace shows up hungry, frightened, inconvenient — trailing behind you on a walk, perched on borrowed wings or waiting quietly to see whether you will notice at all.
I did not set out to write about animals. I set out to understand grace — not as an abstract idea, but as a practice. Grace is a word we often reserve for belief systems or moral aspirations, for moments we imagine should feel elevated or resolved. But lived grace is rarely tidy. It is logistical. It is repetitive. It is choosing, again and again, to remain present when withdrawal would be easier. > Read More
