Almosts …
Something moved in the grass last week, though I could not say with certainty what manner of thing it was. The movement itself was slight and easily overlooked, yet it carried with it an uneasiness that lingered long after the moment had passed. I did not see the creature clearly, nor did I hear any sound that could reasonably account for my discomfort. Instead, what reached me was something far stranger: the echo of my own words returning to me with a meaning I had never intended and could not entirely comprehend.
Since that evening, I have found myself growing quieter than before. Conversations that would once have slipped from memory now return to me in the small hours of the night, demanding to be reconsidered. Casual remarks seem laden with hidden significance, while ordinary questions acquire an unsettling weight that prevents me from answering them with confidence. It is as though some veil has been lifted from familiar things, revealing depths that I had neither expected nor desired to find.
The grass itself appears unchanged to any casual observer. It bends beneath the wind as it always has, and by daylight it presents the same harmless appearance that it has worn for years. Yet I cannot look upon it now without wondering what secrets may lie concealed beneath its green surface. There are places in the world that seem capable of keeping memories, preserving fragments of forgotten truths long after the people who created them have moved on. The patch of grass beyond my window has begun to strike me as such a place, possessing a silence that feels less like peace than concealment.
Although I have returned to that spot more than once, I have discovered nothing that would satisfy a rational mind. Nevertheless, the feeling remains that something observed me from within that tangled growth and that, in some inexplicable fashion, it heard more than I intended to reveal. Whether it was merely a passing creature or something far less ordinary, I cannot say. I know only that ever since that evening, my own words have seemed less trustworthy, and the grass has appeared to be keeping a secret that it has no intention of surrendering.
Since that evening, I have grown suspicious not only of the grass but of the mind itself. Both appear capable of concealing things beyond easy reach, and both have lately kept me occupied with matters I cannot quite lay to rest.
I have rehearsed entire conversations with them, far more than I would care to admit, and each version unfolds according to its own peculiar logic. In some imaginings, I conduct myself with admirable composure, speaking with the measured restraint of a person entirely master of both temperament and circumstance. In others, however, my self-command deteriorates rather dramatically, and the language I employ would require a generous measure of forgiveness from both heaven and earth. The mind, when left unattended, possesses a remarkable talent for composing scenes that alternate between dignity and disaster with unsettling ease.
Nor have these mental exercises been confined to conversation alone. There have been occasions when I have entertained visions of a more physical resolution, though only within the secure jurisdiction of imagination. For the present, such contests remain mercifully hypothetical, permitting indignation to exhaust itself without the inconvenience of actual consequences. These encounters, staged entirely within the theatre of my own thoughts, are executed with extraordinary precision. Their choreography is impeccable, every retort perfectly timed, every movement calculated to secure a moral and rhetorical victory. Most comforting of all is the fact that they are performed before an audience of none.
It is during such moments that a particular prayer rises repeatedly to my lips, arriving with a frequency that suggests it has taken up permanent residence in my spirit. I find myself pleading, with a sincerity that is only partly humorous, “Catch me before I forget that I am a Christian.” The words emerge most often when indignation begins to gather momentum and imagination starts recruiting allies for yet another campaign. They are less a declaration of virtue than an admission of vulnerability, a recognition that righteousness can become surprisingly difficult to maintain when one is granted unlimited opportunities to win arguments that never actually occurred.
Yet the prayer rarely marks the end of the matter. No sooner has calm begun to return than my imagination convenes another emergency meeting, summoning old grievances, revisiting disputed remarks, and presenting fresh evidence in cases that ought long ago to have been dismissed. There, in the quiet chambers of memory, old expressions are revisited, hidden motives subjected to inquiry, while even the silences are regarded with suspicion, as though they conceal some significant revelation. It is an exhausting enterprise, and one from which no lasting verdict is ever obtained. Nevertheless, the proceedings continue, as persistent and elusive as the movement I glimpsed in the grass, suggesting that some disturbances do not merely pass through us but settle themselves quietly within, waiting for the next opportunity to be heard.
What lingered longest was not confusion but anger. Beneath all the analysis, speculation, and imagined conversations, there remained a resentment that refused to release its hold, returning again and again with the determination of a creditor convinced that some debt remained unpaid.
Furious feels like an understatement for what I carried during those days, for the emotion itself seemed too large and unruly to be contained by so modest a word. In the midst of it, I discovered how anger possesses a peculiar talent for disguising itself as righteousness, persuading a person that every sharp thought is justified and every harsh response deserved. I began to understand how easily one can be invited into a dance with darker impulses, not through some dramatic act of rebellion, but through the slow and seductive assurance that resentment is somehow a virtue. Entire speeches assembled themselves within my mind without effort, each one more eloquent than the last, while any interest in grace or restraint appeared to retreat to a very distant corner of my conscience.
Eventually, having exhausted myself with imaginary arguments and victories that existed nowhere beyond my own thoughts, I found there was little left to do except place the matter before God.
I have prayed for them as well, though honesty compels me to admit that not all of those prayers have been equally charitable. Some were genuine petitions for their well-being, offered with sincerity and a desire for peace. Others were burdened by lingering injuries that dressed themselves in the language of devotion while secretly hoping for vindication. The Lord, who is infinitely more patient than either of us deserves, has endured all of them. It remains a work in progress, this business of learning to wish goodness upon those who have become the subject of our private grievances. God and I are still engaged in that particular lesson, and I suspect the greater difficulty has less to do with changing them than with changing me.
This undertaking would likely be simpler were I a calmer and more measured person. Unfortunately, my natural disposition has often displayed a preference for enthusiasm over restraint.
To be fair, I have never been accused of approaching life quietly. When a matter captures my interest, my enthusiasm tends to arrive at full volume, carrying conviction, curiosity, and more energy than prudence would generally recommend. Certain people possess the gift of expressing deep feeling in measured tones; I have often envied them. My passions have rarely demonstrated such discipline. They prefer the front door to the side entrance and have little instinct for whispering when they believe something important is at stake.
Lately, however, I have felt compelled to divide myself into increasingly smaller and more cautious portions. One part is permitted to feel what it feels, another is responsible for maintaining a pleasant expression, a third remains silent when silence seems safest, while yet another examines every sentence before it is released into the world. Words that once travelled freely are now subjected to careful inspection, weighed not merely for what they mean but for what they might become after passing through the minds of others. I find myself considering what is acceptable, the expectations that may surround a conversation, and the unintended significance that may return attached to phrases I never meant to carry such weight.
The process has become so elaborate that even the most ordinary conversation can feel like a matter requiring official approval. Before a single thought is expressed, committees convene within the corridors of my mind to evaluate possible outcomes, anticipate misunderstandings, and assess the risks associated with honesty. Every remark is reviewed, revised, and occasionally rejected altogether. It is an exhausting bureaucracy of the spirit, established in the name of caution and sustained by the fear of being misheard. The committee works relentlessly and accomplishes very little, yet it refuses to adjourn. Like the unseen movement in the grass, it remains perpetually active beneath the surface, rustling through every exchange and reminding me that some forms of vigilance eventually become burdens of their own.
For all its activity, the committee is not motivated by caution alone. Beneath the endless deliberations lies a quieter grief: the knowledge that there was once a time when none of this was necessary.
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There is a particular sadness that accompanies the loss of ease between two people, a quiet sorrow that seldom announces itself openly and yet lingers in every interaction thereafter. It is a small grief, perhaps, but no less real for its size. To become careful around someone with whom one once spoke freely is to discover that a door has closed without ever hearing it shut. What was once effortless now requires consideration. Words that formerly arrived without hesitation must be weighed before they are offered, and silences begin to occupy places that conversation once filled. More than anything, I find myself missing the simplicity of exchanges that did not demand postmortem examination, conversations that could be left where they occurred instead of being carried home and dissected long into the evening.
Yet I have come to believe that preserving one’s voice is a form of quiet resistance. The temptation, when misunderstandings multiply and trust grows uncertain, is either to become louder or to disappear altogether. Neither option seems particularly wise. I want instead to speak with enough clarity that I can still recognise myself in my own words. That task is proving more difficult than I once imagined. It requires restraint without surrender, honesty without hostility, and conviction without the need to dominate. I am learning, slowly and imperfectly, how to express what is true without setting fire to everything around it, even when the speech unfolding within my head remains entirely convinced that it deserves both a stage and a microphone.
Part of that lesson has involved stepping back. Clarity, I am discovering, rarely emerges from standing in the centre of one’s own agitation.
There is, however, an unexpected benefit to distance. From afar, patterns become visible that were impossible to discern while standing in the middle of them. I have spent so much time staring into the grass that I scarcely realised how much of my attention it consumed. Only after stepping back did I begin to notice its movements with greater clarity. What once felt urgent now appears predictable. What once demanded a response now seems content to reveal itself without my intervention. The grass still stirs from time to time, but I no longer feel compelled to part the blades and investigate every rustle. Observation has taught me things that involvement never could.
Clarity has not provided the explanation I once sought, but it has offered something quieter and perhaps more valuable: permission to stop searching.
Perhaps that is why, after rehearsing so many conversations and constructing so many imaginary resolutions, I continue to arrive at the same conclusion. There is nothing more here that requires me. I have examined every angle available to me, replayed every scene, revisited every grievance, and searched every corner of memory for some missing explanation. The exercise has yielded very little besides exhaustion. At some point, wisdom requires accepting that not every misunderstanding can be untangled and not every disappointment repaired. Certain things remain unresolved because they were never ours to resolve.
Anger, after all, has a remarkable capacity for making itself feel indispensable. It convinces us that our continued attention is necessary, that one more review of the evidence will finally produce peace, that one more argument within our own minds will deliver the justice we seek. For a time, I allowed myself to live beneath its surface. I sank so deeply into its currents that I scarcely noticed I was no longer breathing clean air. Each recollection produced another reason to remain offended, another justification for preserving the flame. The anger fed upon itself, gathering strength from repetition until it became difficult to distinguish memory from injury.
There came a point when I could no longer ignore the cost of carrying it. Resentment had occupied my thoughts so thoroughly that it began to resemble devotion, demanding regular attention while offering little in return. Having exhausted every argument I could manufacture, I found myself at last in need of something greater than another explanation.
Now my prayer has become something altogether different. Rather than asking for better arguments, I find myself asking for rescue. I ask God to lead me across the very depths in which I nearly lost myself, and to teach me that peace is found not in winning every dispute but in trusting Him to carry what I cannot. The miracle I seek is not the changing of another person but the steady transformation of my own heart, which has carried this burden long enough to mistake its weight for necessity.
The lesson has unfolded gradually rather than dramatically. I have not awoken one morning entirely free of resentment. Instead, I have been led, almost without noticing, into a place where its voice no longer reaches me with quite the same authority.
The distance has helped more than I expected. I no longer encounter fresh reminders each day, and without constant exposure the fire has begun, however gradually, to lose its appetite. What once required continual fuel is finding less to consume. The flames have not vanished entirely, but they burn lower than before, and their light no longer governs the landscape of every thought. For the first time in a long while, I can imagine a future in which this chapter occupies its proper place among my memories rather than continuing to demand residence in my present.
And when the grass moves now, I no longer assume it is calling me back. I simply notice the rustling, acknowledge that something remains hidden there, and continue on my way, content at last to let the field keep whatever secrets it has chosen to preserve.
Perhaps forgiveness will arrive as most worthwhile things do, not all at once but gradually, advancing by increments too small to measure while they are occurring. It may not announce itself with any great revelation or dramatic moment of release. Instead, it may enter quietly, disguised as ordinary peace, until one morning I discover that entire hours have passed without a single argument being rehearsed, without a single speech being revised, and without the familiar urge to revisit wounds that have already occupied more of my attention than they deserved. Perhaps that is how healing often appears, as an absence, the gentle disappearance of burdens one has carried for so long that their weight came to feel natural.
For now, I am content to learn where to place my feet. There is wisdom in that, I think, in choosing each step with care rather than rushing ahead in search of certainty. The waters remain deeper than I would prefer, and the grass still conceals things I do not entirely understand. Yet I am beginning to trust that not every mystery demands investigation and not every disturbance requires a response. Some paths become visible only after we stop staring behind us, and some lessons can be learned only by continuing forward.
So I walk on, at times confidently and at others with hesitation, leaving behind the conversations that never happened and the victories that existed only in imagination. They have occupied enough of my time and consumed enough of my energy. I would rather invest myself in quieter things now, in peace that does not need to defend itself and in truth that can stand without anger as its guardian.
And as for my imagination, that tireless architect of grievances and unlikely confrontations, I know it has not entirely surrendered its habits. Even now it remains capable of assembling an entire case from a passing memory and preparing for battle at a moment’s notice. For that reason, my prayer remains simple. I ask God to catch me whenever my thoughts begin rolling up their sleeves, as old resentments gather themselves for another appearance, and whenever the path behind me seems more compelling than the one along which He is leading me.
The grass may keep its secrets.
I no longer need to keep them with it. 🐍🌿
“I am not what I ought to be.” _ John Newton
🎶 Stitches by Shawn Mendes remained a frequent companion during the writing of this essay and seemed to possess a disconcerting familiarity with the subject under consideration.🔗https://youtu.be/VbfpW0pbvaU?si=_XBW9MFQFp7CScnu
🎨 Almosts (2D Animation), © 2026 By Ednah Rebeccah
#Almosts
