It’s these mornings past— when you know you should write a blog. Life’s been too busy. All numbers and money. All frustration and fury. Sunday mornings should be the laziness of steam off my coffee, the breath of namaste. Yet I feel a sloth of wooden gears splintering through my brain. Lily’s sickness in the night… the exhaustion of family, everyone trying to please. In my dreams, I think of a cottage. But the cogs won’t turn. Queen Anne’s lace blows delicately in the wind— the pictures stop me most delicately in my path. Lingering there, the words get stuck in space. Then it came to me— why not dig into my old writings for inspiration? And there it was— a poem I had saved: Albany Bulb with Elaine, by Alison Luterman. Her poem—raw, real, present. It wraps the horrors of our days in the soft cloth of memory— the timeless joys of rebirth, first discoveries, and the quiet deaths of those evils unleashing pain. The pure rawness— the knowing that you can’t rake out these moments. They can’t beat us. It was in Alison’s poem my inspiration returned. It’s in those moments in between— the resilience of you and me. That’s when the memory rose: cutting potatoes with my dad under the shaded carport, preparing them for planting. Then chaos— sudden and joyful. Soon, little feet came running, books in tow. Three of them jumped to my knee— wanting the books read by me, just like it went with my dad and me. Trading off, three: Dad and me, and the knife, careful not to hit little fingers as it moved. It’s hard to tell a story while cutting eyes from a potato and switching laps between the three. But life doesn’t wait for stillness. And neither do little ones with books in their arms. This is the metaphor. No matter how busy, how dangerous, how worn the world becomes— there will always be stories to tell. And little ones eager to hear them. Write them down. Tell them anyway. These moments—this confidence— will never be silenced within us. As the rawness of evil grows, so too does the rawness of beauty. And beauty always rises. And overcomes.
And I think now, maybe I write these stories down not just for me. Maybe it’s for the next little feet coming. For the mornings when coffee isn’t enough, but a story is.
What are your “potato” moments—the chaotic, messy spaces where your stories still manage to bloom? Share below—I’d love to read them.
It’s these mornings past—when you know you should write a blog. Life’s been too busy. All numbers and money. All frustration and fury.Sunday mornings should be the laziness of steam off my coffee, the breath of namaste. Yet I feel…
I stood among three lives: Is it so with people too? That the most intuitive among us—those who say little but change everything—are given the smallest price tag?
Rabbit Holesby Lira WrenDoo doo doodling…How many of you have gotten lost down a rabbit hole?I found myself researching the diving speed of penguins versus puffins — well, you know — because, facts. Knowing my puffins rule, I decided to…
I searched in earnest, at last, I found the box— but not her, my beautiful ballerina. I longed to see her dance again. Music rose, velvet glowed, my heart lifted… but only my reflection gazed back. And then— I saw…
When I see that old, cheap bubble gum— you know the blue, yellow, and orange in the traditional wrapper, twisted at both ends; the kind whose flavor lasts only a moment before vanishing— I’m instantly taken bac
• A Childcraft volume—Art & Music—the very one I hadn’t discovered as a child, playing in my mother’s old attic, dry and warm. A space forbidden, yet where I hid during a game of hide and seek from my brothers. It was there I found its mates—an old, worn box holding an entire set of educational books. But it was missing the soul of them all. Years later, on a rainy afternoon when a client canceled, I wandered into a tiny, narrow nook of an ancient bookshop. It had a warm barista and a library of frosted windows and wooden tables beyond. And there she was—Art & Music—unhidden, displayed in the spotlight. Waiting for me, again, in another game of hide and seek.
• A USDA Yearbook of Agriculture, 1897, salvaged from a cart labeled “Discard — Free Books.” I found it after a trip to Thomas Wolfe’s house, during a quiet afternoon spent browsing the library. It catalogs insects, diseases, and cures. A nation, trying to understand its soil. The line between beauty and utility drawn with ink and intention. An important addition to my AgTech business, and to any gardener’s production—and our belly’s satisfaction.
• Then, The Art of Andrew Wyeth, first edition—softcover, no dust jacket. A quiet masterpiece dismissed by collectors, left on a desk at an antique store. But it’s the one that stopped me. Made me breathe differently. Made me feel.
These aren’t just books. They’re artifacts of love.
One instructs. One catalogs. One evokes.
But the last—oh, the last is soul.
Is it so with people too? That the most intuitive among us—those who say little but change everything—are given the smallest price tag?
Maybe that’s why we must treasure them now. Send the letter. Hug the elder. Dance with your child. Say the thing. Before someone calls it discard.
Lira Wren
Some treasures don’t come with a barcode— Like a a well-worn book, a candle lit beside a bedtime story, and your mug that cradles your memories —or your little one—in warmth and love. A pillow for daydreams and a blanket for bonding. Don’t forget the water bottle to quench your soul.
At SwAY HEYven, every item is more than a product— it’s a piece of soul, a poem you can hold.
How many of you have gotten lost down a rabbit hole?
I found myself researching the diving speed of penguins versus puffins — well, you know — because, facts. Knowing my puffins rule, I decided to compare puffin speed to penguin speed. Omitting the outlier of the Gentoo penguin — who can swim as fast as 22 mph — puffins swim faster. Go team Puffins!
While researching, AI kindly listed penguin speeds by species. One penguin name caught my eye — macaroni! Other than imagining pasta recipes, I fell into a rabbit hole. I asked, “Why on earth did someone name a penguin macaroni?”
Turns out, “macaroni” was a term given to men’s attire in the 18th century. It signified men who were considered accomplished because they took the Grand Tour of continental Europe, learning various cultures, mannerisms, fine arts, architecture, and more. These young British aristocrats were especially fond of Italy, where they found a new food: macaroni — something not found in England at the time.
Hence, this over-the-top fashion style became known as “macaroni.” You could even say it became a kind of Macaroni Club — a group of young, well-traveled Englishmen who prided themselves on their flair and worldliness. Because macaroni was new and exotic, the name was their way of showing off their refined taste.
Still — what does that have to do with naming a penguin?
Turns out, this dapper-looking penguin was dubbed macaroni because of its flashy, feathered brows — reminding someone of those stylish young men. And dapper it is.
Of course, by then I was thinking of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, and then Jane Goldman and Matthew Vaughn’s movie Kingsman. A certain someone I know has a crush on Colin Firth (and she’d kill me if I said her name, so I won’t 😉),— but that got me thinking of her and scribbling her a note.
I reached for my journal... but all that macaroni talk made me hungry.
So instead, I pulled out my phone, looked up a pasta salad recipe, and headed to the kitchen. I propped it up on its SwAY HEYven stand and started fixing my pasta salad for dinner.
Once I’ve filled my belly, I’m going to begin my doo doo doodling — now that I know why Yankee Doodle stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni...
Got a Rabbit Hole Story? Drop it in the comments; I’d love to get sidetracked.
And when you're ready to doodle your own detours... Head to the shop and pick your journal and phone stand.
When I first unwrapped the box, I had no idea how wondrous it would become. As I lifted the lid, a delicate ballet melody began—and there she was: my beautiful ballerina, pirouetting gracefully in her pink tutu. Instantly, I was mesmerized, whisked away to visions of The Nutcracker, of Swan Lake, of castles in enchanted lands and watercolored dreams.
Across the velveteen cloth lay the stage beneath her feet, but for me, it was a pathway—my destiny: a ballerina. In awe, I looked deeper. I saw her reflection in the mirror. More importantly, I saw mine,
A halo reflected upon my head and silver linings upon my skin. I was dressed as a ballerina. She and I were one—and we danced.
I twirled across my room, dreams pirouetting in my mind. When the music stopped, I rushed to turn the key again. We had to dance. Again and again.
Each piece of jewelry I collected was laid neatly at her feet, and she watched over my treasures, patiently until my return. She never left my side as I grew.
Yet somehow, in all the years, the decades... I lost her. But I never forgot my silver linings.
When I began SwAY HEYven, I went on a quiet quest for her— floor after floor, booth after booth of antique malls, lifting lids, hoping to hear music, hoping for a glimpse of her again.
And then, I found it. Not her. But the box.
A beautiful music box. Wooden. Dovetail corners. Hexagon pattern. Fine craftsmanship.
As I opened the lid, a gentle waltz floated up, and my heart lifted softly into the clouds.
My eyes scanned the soft velvet, my ears filled with nostalgia— but only my reflection greeted me.
She wasn’t here only the box.
But as I looked into it there—again—I saw my reflection. But something else was. Something new. A realization:
She never left. The ballerina is within me. I am the silver rain. I am enough.
You are too. Let the Silver Rain dance upon you.
The Silver Rain Collection by Lira Rain is my offering to every soul who once twirled in a room lit by music and mirrors. To the dreamers. The artist. The poets. The dancers. YOU. The little one who grew—and never stopped dancing. Even if we never became ballerinas, maybe your little one did. Mine did.
She is in my photo. She looks just like the ballerina I once watched spin in my music box. And now, she dances for others too
Did You Dance? Did you have a Music Box? We'd love to hear your story. Post it in the comments below, and sign up for our email list to receive new blogs in your inbox as they drop. Come be a part of us.
When I see that old, cheap bubble gum— you know the blue, yellow, and orange in the traditional wrapper, twisted at both ends; the kind whose flavor lasts only a moment before vanishing— I’m instantly taken back.
It’s the true bubble gum flavor, the one everyone tries to replicate in ice cream, and even, strangely, in grapes.
So sought-after in my youth. Rare. Expensive. The kind we chewed long past the moment the taste was gone. We must’ve consumed a full teaspoon of sugar per piece.
Every time my adult hands get hold of one of those unwanted, hard pieces of Dubble BubbleR now, I’m back in elementary school, sitting on a friend’s lawn after school.
Her parents were “rich” compared to mine. They had a house in town, tidy and clean. New furniture, even. Her mom didn’t work, and her father wore suits. They had “fancy” food—Sunday food—every day. Anna sat in front of me with an entire bag of Dubble BubbleR gum.
An entire bag!
My eyes glowed with admiration and disbelief. How could her mom buy her a whole bag? She was an only child, sure—but a whole bag?
And then came the moment.
Anna asked if I knew how to blow a bubble. I didn’t. She laughed, then vowed to teach me. And she did. I learned fast.
We went through the whole bag—yikes. She didn’t like the gum once the flavor was gone (which was almost instantly), so she’d toss hers aside. There we sat—cross-legged on green grass, in the cool shade— a pile of spent gum to our left.
She taught me how to press the gum into a square in my palm, how to place it just behind my teeth, and how to push with my tongue to blow. Then, I practiced without chewing the right way.
Voilà.
Bubble-blowing queen, crowned that very afternoon. But to this day, I can’t believe we got away with chewing through that entire bag.
Her mom wasn’t upset. We were even called in for a fine dinner like royalty.
All of this came whooshing back as I peeled open a wrapper of Dubble BubbleR I’d tucked away in my car door. There in the hot summer sun—partially melted—I tried to form a bubble. The sticky, sweet mess dissolved down my throat. Every granule— like that slow, warm afternoon with Anna.
But just as the flavor faded, I heard it again— Our summer time giggles as we blew our biggest bubbles and the sticky mess splattered all over our faces.
Memories sealed in bubble gum wrappers.
Tell me your sweet summertime story below—those sticky-fingered, sunshine-drenched memories. Write it out with a warm cup of coffee or tea from our Puffin mug, nestled against your favorite puffin pillow. Headed back into the heat? Bring your puffin pal along in a sustainable tote, water bottle chillin’ by your side. Let’s swap stories, sip slow, and shop memories that stick (unlike the gum).
I needed an escape, and the universe gave me one. A free ride to the coast with a friend—just in time to slip out of the spiral I’d let coil around me. A pity that begins whispering: You're not enough. Not pretty enough. Not rich enough. Not seen.
I’d been caught in that spiral—the kind where even the sunshine feels like it’s for someone else.
But life has a way of showing up exactly when we’re not looking.
He was just a boy—maybe three, maybe four—running with fierce determination from the ocean to a small hole in the sand. Splash, scoop, run, pour. Again. And repeat.
I was walking through the surf alone, aiming for a distant pier before I had to leave. Smiling at children, breathing in salt air, and struggling to keep my troubles from creeping in. Grateful I didn’t have to pay for this trip. Grateful to be here at all.
That’s when he stopped me.
Bucket full of seawater, a grin stretched across his face, he looked up at me and said: “I’m making a pool of water for my grandma’s feet—so they don’t get hot.”
I followed his eyes up to the dry sand. His grandmother sat there waving, smiling, welcoming, a towel draped over her legs. There was no way the hole he dug in the dry, hot sand would fill. The water disappeared faster than he could bring it.
But he believed it would fill.
And more than that—he told me.
He included me in his mission without asking who I was or what I had to offer. He just shared his joy, his purpose, his why. It was a moment of unfiltered inclusion.
I told him, “You’re such a smart and caring boy.”
And I meant it with my whole heart.
That’s when it hit me: kindness doesn’t always show up to fix. Sometimes it shows up to invite.
He made space for me in his world. And in doing so, reminded me that I belong—not because of what I bring, but because I am here. I, too, carry water.
Even if the hole never stays full. The sand beneath stays cool.
Lira Wren
Kindness doesn’t always show up to fix. Sometimes it shows up to invite.
Lira Wren
Kindness doesn’t always show up to fix. Sometimes, it shows up to invite
Lira Wren
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We’ve all had moments when we felt unseen, not enough. But silver linings aren’t in the distance—they live within us, in quiet rituals and everyday grace.
You don’t need to do more. Just be. Just breathe.
A halo upon skin. A dance in stillness.
Pack a weekend bag , hydrate, and leave space for the unexpected.
