roadside flowers

The air feels softer in vineyard haven, and even the flowers along the roadside seem to insist you pause long enough to notice them. One morning on a walk, I came across a stretch of blooms—wild and unbothered—woven between hand-painted signs declaring things like “We Support Immigrants.” It stopped me in my tracks. Beauty here wasn’t curated. It was lived.

I spent a few weeks on the island with three of my closest girlfriends. We’ve known each other long enough to see each other in different seasons: one on the brink of a big career leap, one preparing to send a child off to college, another holding steady in the deep comfort of her marriage. We had long dinners, slow mornings, and easy silences-the kind of community that doesn’t need performance, only presence.

The pace of that month gave us space to really hear each other. Not just the words we said, but the way we said them. To see the small gestures that say “I’ve got you” louder than any declaration ever could.

That, I think, is the gift of rest. It quiets the world just enough so you can hear yourself. It tunes you to the voices of the people who love you and sharpens your sight so you notice beauty-the kind that grows wild along the road and the kind that shows up, unwavering, in the people you’ve grown to call home.