Between Bruises and Blooms

There are therapists who charge by the hour.

There are forests that charge nothing.

And somewhere between them is the curl of fragrant smoke lifting toward the ceiling like prayers without a religion.

I don’t chase oblivion.

I chase quiet.

The kind where anxiety loosens, creativity stretches, and laughter finds its way home.

Healing doesn’t always arrive wearing a white coat.

Sometimes it smells like pine, earth, and possibility.