Gertrude Carroll

I wonder sometimes if we've forgotten how to truly rest. Not the kind that happens between tasks, but the deep, quiet surrender that settles into your bones like the weight of a well-worn blanket.

My Path Here

After decades in the convent, I learned the language of silence. The rhythm of the hours—Matins, Lauds, Vespers—became the drumbeat of my days. I learned to find the sacred in repetition, in stillness, in the spaces between words.

Then, at fifty, I left. Not because I lost my faith, but because I found a different calling. I married a man who loved to talk through the night, who filled our small house with laughter and questions and the smell of coffee at all hours. Twenty-three years of beautiful noise.

Now, widowed, I sit in my quiet house with my cat and my teacup, listening to the different kinds of silence: the hush after the last car has passed, the way dawn arrives without a sound, the soft rhythm of my own breathing.

What I Write About

I'm drawn to the ordinary moments we overlook:

The way a single candle flickers as you drift off, casting shadows on the wall.
The weight of a pillow after a long day, holding your head like a gentle hand.
The silence between heartbeats, just before sleep takes hold.
How a nap in the afternoon feels like a secret gift from the earth itself.

I don't write to fix anything. I write to wonder: What if happiness isn't a destination, but a way of seeing? What if joy has been here all along, waiting in the quiet spaces we've ignored?

What You'll Find Here

No lists of "10 Ways to Be Happy." Instead, small observations that hold something sacred:

A morning when the rain on the roof felt like a lullaby for the soul.
The way my cat curls into the curve of my arm, teaching me about trust in stillness.
The quiet courage it takes to say, "I'm content," when the world demands more.
How a single breath before sleep can be a prayer.

These are not grand revelations. They are gentle invitations—to slow down, to notice, to let go.

I write this at dawn, as I always do, with my teacup warm in my hands. The world is still asleep, and so am I, in the quietest way. I hope you'll join me here, in the space between sleeping and waking, where everything is possible.

— Gertrude Carroll, still wondering