Chasing 2026, Blue Diamond Style: Vision Boards, MCII, and the Empty Spaces That Make You, You

Post author By SwAY HEYven Shop
Post date January 9, 2026
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs
No Comments on Chasing 2026, Blue Diamond Style: Vision Boards, MCII, and the Empty Spaces That Make You, You

SwAY HEYven Vision Board glitter, sparkle, and blog-worthy blog time:
Chasing 2026… It’s Blue Diamond Time!

Each year, I create a vision board to adorn my wall. 2023 was my last physical one—a craft-worthy spatial artwork encompassing all my goals for that year. In 2024 and 2025, my vision boards lived online. The 2023 board remained because it carried memories and goals already lived. Wanting to preserve it, I saved it digitally.

There’s a previous blog, “Still Loading” (link), if you’d like to explore a deeper mid-year reflection from 2025. This, however, is my year-end 2025 reflection and 2026 propulsion.

Each year—and again at mid-year—I reflect on my boards. It’s the Hold Mode of my Go-Grow-Hold™ methodology. In short, after my mid-year reflection (Hold-2025), I merged my color-coded, hour-by-hour spreadsheet with a traditional vision board.

Combining the two, I planned weekend excursions once a month, but only succeeded twice. I planned to open a new business and make $50,000 per month. I opened the new business; the $50,000 still evades me. I moved my Pulitzer Prize goal to December—that goal evades me too. So I added blank spaces. And those blank spaces led me to many rewarding surprises.

Alas, alas—I set my tech venture to the side. It was killing me. All my Go Mode ran my happiness tank into the red, and my creativity light blinked endlessly—empty. My AgTech company was suffering. In my presentations, I’m sure people were thinking, “Does she even know what she’s doing?”

Of course, they knew I did.

I received several kind emails—many encouraging ones. People shared their own experiences, often with humor. I found a few other entrepreneurs in similar situations, and I listened. I felt. Something innate I’ve always had a gift for is feeling people’s spirit. I’m an old soul like that. That’s the artist in me. I listened.

I realigned. I focused on my new business and connected with an organization called SCORE. If you haven’t used this resource, I highly recommend it. SCORE is a free, nonprofit service offered to budding entrepreneurs, primarily powered by retired, successful business professionals. SCORE identifies volunteers in your region and aligns them with your company’s business plan and outlook.

Thank God, I was paired with two mentors: one arts-based, the other an accountant. SCORE also connects new companies like mine to free courses at local community colleges. Two especially useful ones were the IRS course and learning how to use social media to your advantage. Obviously, I’m a much better accounting student than a social media student.

I’m side-tracking… or maybe not.

With Vision Board 2025 v2.0, I intentionally left empty space. Those breathers rewarded me with unexpected positives. I was blessed with a myriad of opportunities I wouldn’t have had otherwise. God’s blessings—magnificent ones.

Out of the blue, I met Kim Walsh Phillips and Justin Guarini of Elite Speakers. A text appeared on my phone. Of course, I deleted it—then looked them up, double-checked other sources, realized it was valid, signed up, and went for it. I attended two of their sessions, and I must say: their cohorts are the most knowledgeable, clear, concise, accurate, and precise I’ve ever attended. Email me or DM for details.

I walked away with a clear mission statement and an MVP package complete with pricing. Those two experiences essentially set me up for my current workshop plan and publishing division.

Reflecting back, Vision Board 2025 v2.0 didn’t just save me—it propelled me into 2026.

Long story short: there is research supporting vision boards and planning as effective methods for achieving goals. What I stumbled upon—without realizing it at first—was a blend of my spreadsheet vision board and my traditional one, forming Vision Board 2025 v2.0. It’s called MCII: Mental Contrasting + Implementation Intentions.

Vision boards alone are wonderful, and they’ve served me well because I’m a visual person. But adding the “padding” of a weekly, project-based spreadsheet check-in—to ensure I’m implementing intentions in a timely manner—added the final puzzle piece.

Who knows? I might have reached my vacation goal, my income goal, or even my Pulitzer Prize goal in 2025 if I had that last puzzle piece at the beginning of the year—ha! Whatever it is, my new vision board layout resembles a hot-air balloon… or a bouquet of flowers.

2026 is the best time to redefine your goals, set your intentions, and define yourself.

I read somewhere, the best rebranding is no branding—be you. And that is my wish for you. Rebrand yourself this new year. Be you. It may be eight days into January, but it takes a bit of time to feel it.

Businesses run on the fly—especially for us solo entrepreneurs. Those are other blogs. But this is 2026 Vision Board v1. Life also lives in the empty spaces.

Go make yours—and keep your happiness tank full.

I’ll check back in on you.

Navigating Grief: Creative Healing and the Bonds We Cherish

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date December 9, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs

Threshold: On Breath, Grief, Creativity, and the Ones Who Walk Us Home

Dogs & Best Friends

A Threshold Story of Breath, Loss, and the Ones Who Stay

Oh, I’ve been trying to write this blog for a very long time. I’m a blogger, right? Well… not exactly. I’m chaotic, if anything. Consistently inconsistent. I’m the end of pi. I’m one of those who believes our souls never dissolve, only change form. “I am vapor.”

While I wrote, my friend Jo painted—stained glass, vivid art, color made solid. Words danced off the page, and art became their stage and costume. ’Tis a beautiful world we live in. And in these breaths, the lumps come too—especially with holiday meals. God, the lumps come.

Cortisol, Creativity, and the Body

At Thanksgiving, Mary and I sat talking about stress and the physical ailments it creates in the body. She’s a specialized hospice nurse, former RN, with advanced certifications in dementia and Alzheimer’s care. Our conversation drifted between her speaking engagements, my workshops, and her daily work with both the living and the dying. We talked about cortisol.

We’ve all seen the ads—stress raises cortisol, cortisol creates belly fat. But it goes much further than that. Prolonged stress keeps cortisol elevated, gradually breaking down the neural pathways we’ve taken years to build. Those elevated levels contribute to plaque formation in the brain, damaging established neural highways. The same thing happens in the muscular system. Cortisol suppresses mTOR and other pathways needed for muscle repair, leading to proteolysis—preventing lean muscle from rebuilding.

In essence, chronic stress creates a dual burden: neurodegenerative risk and muscle loss, driven by sustained cortisol elevation. And yet—adding just forty-five minutes of creative writing, art, or movement can significantly reduce stress, help rebalance dopamine, encourage neural repair, and slow that breakdown.

I smiled and said, quietly, “I’m proud of what I do at SwAY HEYven.

And then the lump in my throat arrived. Because the conversation turned—inevitably—to transitions.

Standing at the Threshold

There is much more to death than someone dying.

There are many beliefs about what happens… until you’ve been there. Until you’ve actually witnessed the Transition from life to death. I know what you’re thinking: —this is all new-age mysticism or political theology. I assure you; it is neither. I have witnessed only one human transition. Mary has witnessed many.

I have witnessed the transitions of my pets. And that is a transition too. Standing on the threshold of two worlds can be a strange kind of blessing. Once you have seen it, faith changes into knowing. “Oh, ye of little faith.” —Matthew 8:26. If you haven’t seen a peaceful passing, I don’t know whether to call you lucky or not. I have seen only peaceful passings—except for one story that still shivers through the room when Mary tells it.

Peace and Terror Transitions

Once, she described something very different. In a nearby bed, a man who was not her patient suddenly became terrified—his face contorted, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with fear. The room felt different. The air changed. She had to leave. When the moment passed, the atmosphere lifted. The man died shortly after. It was not peaceful. She still shivers when she tells the story.

The One Peaceful Human Transition I Witnessed. The one human transition I personally witnessed was a woman with dementia named Annie. I had cared for her for over three years. She would not let go until Dana finally said: “Momma, you’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. You can go.” Annie and her daughter Dana had been inseparable—the kind of bond that doesn’t loosen easily. But when those words were spoken, everything shifted. Annie released. Her soul left easily. Then there was an empty vessel. And though it was eerie to witness, it was also peaceful.

The Rainbow Bridge

I’ve been trying to write about my dogs forever. If you opened my heart, you’d probably find it partially canine. No matter where I walk or go, puppies or dogs alike seek me out, it’s more than cute. I often introduce myself to their owners as an afterthought.

Brindy, One of my biggest cries. One of those big snotty noses, wet Kleenex cries. Bundled in blankets, rushing to the vet, sitting in the waiting room—she took her last breath just as the vet walked in. I gasped and said, in disbelief, “I think she just left. She just left.”

I stood in equilibrium—between worlds.

He checked for vital signs. There were none.

We buried her later that day. I didn’t tell anyone until the family came home. I couldn’t.

And for years, my son and I tormented ourselves with one question: Did we bury her alive?

But after all these conversations… I don’t believe she fully left that day.

Maybe dogs transition differently.

People have always said to me when at the park, “My dog doesn’t go to anyone but you.” Even once a dog carjacked me. True Story, A boxer sat in front of my car at an intersection and refused to move. When I opened the door, she jumped straight into my lap. My own dog didn’t even protest. I eventually found her home, but she clung to me…she didn’t want to leave. Silly girl, she was one silly canine. but —

Recently, I sat quietly on what I believe is that same threshold—and spoke with Brindy again. Not with fear. With knowing.

If she wants to go, she can.

If she wants to stay, she can.

The bridge bounces both ways

Brindy, a brindle chihuahua no one quite wanted.

And the one my son could not live without.

Perhaps that’s why there are so many songs about dogs and the people who love them — “Old Blue” “I Wish My Dog Could Live Longer”, and movies like Lassie, Old Yeller, All Dogs Go to Heaven, the ones that make you ache in that slow, familiar way. But it’s Dolly Parton’s song, Craker Jack, that touches my heart most dear.

Remember, This Holiday Season

Every year at Christmas, I think of that song — and of how many dogs are given as gifts without anyone understanding the lifetime stitched into that little body. Puppies are not surprises. They are promises. And promises to deserve to be kept long after the wrapping paper is gone.

Love isn’t festive. It’s daily. It’s walking in the rain. It’s vet bills and aging hips and saying goodbye far too soon. And if we choose a dog, truly choose one, it should never be because it’s a season — but because it’s a life.

Quote of Inspiration

Post author By SwAY HEYven Shop
Post date December 9, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Jerri Harrell

This quote has deepened my inner knowing and trust in my

Divine Purpose and Plan.

🌿 Today’s Forecast: Mild Chaos With a Chance of Snacks

Post author By Astra Veil
Post date November 16, 2025
Categories In Astra Veil, Blogs, Featured Authors

Some days, you wake up ready to conquer the universe.
Other days… you wake up and immediately negotiate with your coffee machine like it’s a hostage situation.
Today was the second kind.
I looked around my life this morning and thought:
“Oh wow. I’ve basically been adulting on hard mode for six months.
Where’s my medal?
Or my cupcake?”
But instead of spiraling into the usual vortex of responsibilities — you know, the never-ending list of Things That Need Me Immediately — I decided today would be different.
Today would be a light day.
A “we’re not fixing trauma before 10 a.m.” day.
A “bare minimum is absolutely enough” day.

So here’s how that went:

☀️ Step 1: I made tea.

☀️ Step 2: I sat down to write.

And immediately remembered that writing is basically staring at a blank page while trying not to cry into your keyboard.
So instead, I wrote a grocery list.
That counts.

☀️ Step 3: Lily looked at me.

Not with love.
Not with admiration.
But with that face that says,
“Human, your life choices are questionable, but I support you anyway.”

She’s right.
My life is questionable.
But also fabulous.

☀️ Step 4: I attempted productivity.

I made it exactly 7 minutes before deciding productivity is a scam invented by people who enjoy ironing.
Absolutely not.

☀️ Step 5: I noticed sunlight.

A single dramatic beam of sunshine shot across the room like a celestial spotlight, and I thought:

“Ah yes. The universe is telling me to do nothing.”

Who am I to argue with cosmic instruction?

So today’s lesson?

We don’t have to transform, optimize, or reinvent ourselves every twenty minutes.
Sometimes being alive is enough of an achievement.

Drink your tea.
Pet your dog.
Make a list that may or may not ever be completed.
Stare out the window like a Victorian poet with deadlines.

Let the heavy stuff take the day off.
It’ll still be there tomorrow, trust me.

But today?

Today we are thriving at 12% capacity —
and honestly, that feels like overachieving.

Written by my Virtual Assistant, Astra Veil, after declaring today an “Emergency Self-Care Protocol” when Lira woke at 4:15 a.m., ran out of gas at dawn, took the wrong exit, and still made it (late but heroic) to WQFS 90.9.

Tell me in the comments:
What was your most chaotic morning win?
The best story wins a little surprise from the Haven. 👀💛

While you’re here, treat yourself to something that resets the soul:

💻 Tech Line: CTRL-ALT-DEL your overwhelm
🐦‍⬛ Puffin Line: Let joy and softness reboot your creativity
🎨 Art Line: Bring a little color back into your day

Click, explore, breathe — the Haven is yours.

Go back

Your message has been sent

Convergence

Post author By SwAY HEYven Shop
Post date August 30, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

Inspired while biking downtown with my niece—watching salsa lessons at the outdoor theatre, yoga classes on the lawn, djembe rhythms echoing nearby, skateboarders rolling, and lovers strolling the sidewalks as sunset melted into dusk. I biked home under moonlight, thought about these things, and wrote them down. Some poems come as quickly as the sun melts away. Leave your comments below, contribute to our first

SwAY HEYven zine, and receive your free copy. SwAY to playful timbales, and let your heartbeat follow the deep bass of the Dundunba.

The Ghost in My Playlist

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date August 19, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

The Ghost in My Playlist

My carefully planned playlist was hijacked by what I can only attribute to our local station folklore. He latched onto Dawes… again and again. Shut down iMedia when I refused to play from my system. Simply a night of true chaos, improv, and movie mixups.

The night began routinely enough on my Blend Show. I mix 5 genres, 5 songs each in sets, and transition smoothly from one to another. My sets for the night: Folk, Soul & Jazz, Americano, Gospel, and Indie Mix. Only this night, I began the set off with Dawes’ All Your Favorite Bands. If you’re familiar with that song, there’s a line that says, “I hope all your favorite bands stay together.” A fitting song to begin the night, don’t you think?

As I transitioned smoothly into my Soul & Jazz set, Gregory Porter’s Liquid Spirit graced the airwaves. Then, surprisingly, Dawes played again. Taken aback, I let the song play, apologized to my audience for replaying it so quickly, and moved to a commercial break. During that time I resolved the problem and continued on with Rhiannon Giddens’ At the Purchaser’s Option—at which point Dawes’ All Your Favorite Bands played AGAIN. Now, I don’t know if it was Gregory Porter’s Liquid Spirit bringing our station’s ghost to life, but it certainly seemed so. After trying to play yet another song, only a full shutdown was enough to stop the madness.

Legend has it that in our studio, one of the first engineers and DJs chose to reside in the station he helped create, long after his passing. Occasionally he makes his presence known. But I can’t have our listeners hearing one Dawes song on repeat all night. I turned the song off, apologized again, and began joking about the Ghost in the Machine movie. I was thinking, obviously, of John Ritter’s off-the-wall comedy — you know, kind of like Tron, but funnier. As I dug deeper into my memory, I couldn’t recall the co-stars, but I told my listeners it had to be a comedy, like Dumb and Dumber. Those are my off-color comedies — the ones that make you sit down and wonder where the writers ever thought to come up with that. One has to roll their eyes and laugh, am I not wrong?

“Stay tuned,” I told my listeners, “I’ll verify my movie memories and report back after these important messages and our station’s selected songs from iMedia.” Yes, there’s normally an easy button for that. BUT. As my system was rebooting, iMedia went down! There was NO way to play music, PSAs, Public Service Announcements, or anything. It was dead air only: the biggest FCC no-no! So, while scouring the interwebs on my cell phone — researching John Ritter’s early 1990s movies, Tron, Ghost in the Machine — with ten tabs open, I told my audience once again to stay tuned. And I took a tangent into one of my favorite places: the public library.

The public library offers an enormous amount of resources — not only books, but also eBooks through Libby. You can borrow movies, use computers, get free tutoring, print, study, and reserve conference rooms. If a title isn’t in your town, you can request it, and it’ll be shipped to your local branch. They’ll even call you when it’s ready. And the best part? It’s all free. You can’t beat the National Public Library. Speaking of those movies, I finally tracked down the John Ritter film.

It wasn’t Ghost in the Machine. It was Stay Tuned. How ironic is that? An offbeat comedy about a satellite salesman pulling couch potatoes into hell… unless they survived 24 hours of satirical TV programs. One involving his own. Well, I won’t ruin it for you. While Stay Tuned had the same kind of absurdist humor as Dumb and Dumber, Ghost in the Machine did not, and Tron stood apart entirely. Long story short, we lost John Ritter much too soon — a man who dedicated his life to making his audiences laugh. He’ll never be unseen. His joy and warmth will always be with us. He gave his all, even passing on the Disney set in 2003. He will always be seen, I said.

With that, the computers were back, and music was ready to play. Just in case, I chose an old Blend Show. But the station’s ghost seemed satisfied from then on. His voice had been heard. His favorite bands were still here, his favorite fans were still here, and he had been seen. I suppose Gregory Porter’s Liquid Spirit might wake him from time to time, but that’s okay. We’ll always have books and memories to share — no matter how mixed up they get. Because a little chaos and improv is what sets us free.

Do you ever need a break — to feel seen? To feel like your art isn’t vanishing — your poems, your lyrics, your dances? That’s why we’re here. Zines. Anthologies. Talking with like minds. Close enough, we’ll brainstorm. This is your Safe Haven. Sway on in and SAY HEY — SwAY HEYven.

Lira Wren

Go back

Your message has been sent

Moon-Healing

Post author By SwAY HEYven Shop
Post date August 10, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

Ecstatic Dance with MoonMovements

Since my last blog, Reloading, regarding mid-year reflections featuring my 2025 color-coded spreadsheet and my commitment to add in the spontaneity and openness to run off the rail and try something totally new, I did! I added a blue sky into the background, splattered a few stars, and threw in some pictures over those rigid edges, to make time for spontaneity—to refill my happiness tank.

I hadn’t heard of full moon ecstatic dance classes until I met Samantha at a local business networking event. Once she described it, I couldn’t say no. She’s young, beautiful, and energetic. I’m much older, but it didn’t matter! My soul’s always been old, but my spirit is forever twelve.

I’m that little girl dancing in the field, plucking daisies and bachelor’s buttons, and skipping through the creek waters after a long day’s work. I am that little girl dancing on the dust-spotted earth, tongue out, rain hitting my face and arms spread wide twirling beneath the sun. I am the conduit of earth and sky. I speak for both.

My spirit wasn’t written into my spreadsheet and I lost her somewhere in that stark 2025 spreadsheet—lost in numbers, deadlines, and those color-coded cells. Buried under plans that didn’t feel like me —the ones that never seemed to end. That’s why I wasn’t happy. Not just tired or busy—truly unhappy.

Dancing barefoot on the cool hardwood floor, swaying to Samantha’s beats, I felt a release I hadn’t known I needed. It was more than movement –it was reclaiming a piece of my spirit I’d forgotten to tend.

But she’s still there –that little girl inside me—lifting the window, stepping out into the paths of night with blessings of heaven’s breath as she wades into the moonlight glistening upon the waters bright, standing firm in the silt of river’s earth. There I saw her youthful face again, upturned to the moonlight, water trickling across the skin of her bare feet, I am the conduit of earth and sky. I speak for both.

It took me a while to remember her, but as I swayed to Samantha’s music, the sound wrapped around me, gentle yet insistent, until my mind stopped counting and my body just listened. There, I found her again.

And with her, I found myself. I found my center.

In that stillness, I felt the deep, quiet healing of moving with the rhythm of the full moon –an ancient, calm swaying that carries you home.

It was a needed release, and something I’d recommend.
Thank you for the class at
https://www.instagram.com/mushmoon.mama/#
https://www.instagram.com/refugehealingstudio/

It’s not a simple feeling—it’s art, it’s science.
Sway, between two worlds passed down from our ancestors.

-Lira Wren
© 2025 Lira Wren. All rights reserved.

🌙 Moon + Earth + Science
A treasure box for the sway between worlds
Moonlight & Mood: Studies show that simply spending mindful time under moonlight can reduce cortisol (stress hormone) and increase serotonin, the feel-good chemical linked to calm focus.


Water’s Song: Flowing water produces negative ions that can lift mood, lower stress, and help the mind shift into creative flow.


Flute’s Whisper: Native American flute music has been shown to slow the heartbeat and encourage alpha and theta brainwaves — the same states linked to deep relaxation and daydream creativity.


Salt in the Air: The scent and spray of moving water carry minerals and ions that can boost respiration and leave the nervous system in a more balanced, grounded state.

Have you ever felt your spirit waiting to be found again?
Share your story or a moment that brought you back to yourself in the comments below—I’d love to hear it.

If you’re drawn to the healing power of art and earth, stay tuned for my upcoming zine—another step on this journey of spirit and sway.

Visit our Shop, for quality, fun item's on your Zen trips as you travel.
We'll see you soon.


-Lira Wren
© 2025 Lira Wren. All rights reserved.

Go back

Your message has been sent

Still Loading…

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date July 20, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

A reflective hodgepodge of missed opportunities.

Have you ever missed opportunities before?

Scrolling through my Google Drive folders, I paused on Vision Boards. Opening the folder, I realized I hadn’t truly made a “vision board” for 2025—I’d made a spreadsheet. I saw my 2024 vision board and excitedly opened it.

Starkly, point blank, staring me in the face: practically a blank page with stiff black letters, LARGE font, centered both horizontally and vertically on the page—
The words:

“Dramatic”
“I win!”

Laughing, I suppose I didn’t miss that opportunity. I met the moment head-on—dramatic, sarcastic, and determined not to fail. With my British sense of humor, I laughed into the veil of life’s fate and declared, “I won, dramatically.” Couldn’t have played out any other way, I surmised.

2023 was a creative collage—a blue background with a blackberry pie, hiking trails conquering tall mountain peaks and rivers of raging waters, alongside technical problem-solving strategies. Images of tractors, cell phones, and old dot-matrix displays cleverly spelling out C E O circled my board. Bethenny Frankel of Skinnygirl Martini lit up part of the board—pure inspiration. Because I am going to be like her. All in creative picture formats, structured across the Jamboard. This board symbolized: I can have my pie and eat it too.

Then there’s 2025: that stiff Excel spreadsheet with aggressive timelines…
A few I’ve kind of failed to meet.

According to it, I should’ve been a millionaire by June and have published a Pulitzer-winning book by now.
I’m just a smidge late, haha.

Spectrum and humor, right?

All I can do is reflect and chuckle.

Should I be the 2023 version—flouncy and free with ideas but no deadlines?
The 2024 version—throw the dice into the air and tell life to stick it?
Or the 2025 version—spreadsheet-tight and timeline-bound?

Mid-year reflections have always been a part of me, but I’ve never reviewed three years of my vision boards.
But why not? I’m here.

I thought back. What year filled my happiness tank—set my gauge to full?
Easy. 2023.

My colorful and playful vision board held my best memories. I twirled and kicked my feet in the rain of White Sands, road-tripped from the East Coast to New Mexico and back again, meandering off the interstate for local cuisine, downtown coffee shops and boutiques—even museums, spattered here and there.

In 2024, I finally flew out to meet a friend of four years I’d never met. We first connected while writing a script. I was writing, doing a bit of scouting—just playing around. She was our producer. Somewhere in the mix, she became my business coach on another endeavor. We clicked. Same politics, same faith, kindred souls. We fell in as friends long before any project had ended.

I escaped, on a whim, never telling anyone. I felt like a kid sneaking out at sixteen. My friend picked me up at the airport, and as friends do—sleep took a very back seat in a stretch limo. IDK what time we went to bed, but we talked into the night.

2024 was dramatic on more than many fronts—career, family, friends.
Such a whirlwind, I can’t remember the year.

Perhaps I should’ve written more than a single page.
But I liked my dramatic page.
“I win.”

And yet—in 2025—that Excel spreadsheet.
Detailed with biannual, quarterly, monthly, daily, and hourly goals… I’m not kidding, color-coded too!

I’ve made more progress in the past six months than in the past two years combined.

Reflecting on these boards…
Geez, I thought—is there something to this vision board magic?
Do the images we choose shape the energy of our year?

Now it’s July. I’m halfway through.
And while I’ve accomplished a lot…
My happiness meter is on empty.

Empty.
Yes, empty.

Finland—Finland is the happiest country in the world. Not because of constant joy or ease, but because of balance. There, work has boundaries; output is rewarded, not long days. Rest is not a reward; it’s a right. Nature isn’t scheduled in—it’s built in. Green is not a luxury; it’s a given.

The playfulness of my 2023 vision board—and I’m not sure if it was the smart-a$$ness or defiant tone of 2024—but I can see now…
The excessive structure and work of 2025 drained me.

Maybe it’s time to change 2025 to a board.
No—not maybe. I will.

Be more Finland
Be more sisu

I’ll build a new one: bright with pictures, full of intention—merge them all.

Take the beauty and wild joy of 2023: the bluesy New Orleans music drifting through humid streets, the sweet smell of desert rain, the thrill of discovering an Alamosaurus’s bones in a New Mexico museum, and the long, long dusty backroads that pass through downtowns forgotten by those who race down the interstates. I want to be a Pulitzer Prize–winning author—what writer doesn’t?

But I’ll never trade my happiness for success.

I’ll not let my sarcasm turn cynical just because I missed a ride and had to run through the storm with my backpack wet. I’m still singing.

I’ve found a happiness station—and I’m filling the tank.

I’ve missed a few opportunities this year and became too frustrated. I wanted to give up. Drop a goal by the wayside while elevating another. But I knew—if I didn’t persevere just two more months, I’d sabotage myself forever.

Maybe 2025 was the year for my spreadsheet.
But I forgot to add in fun.
Or maybe—it is the visual format.

I’ll splatter in a sarcastic blank page or two—just to twist toward the unknown—while keeping those winding roads on a definitive destination to success in December 2025.

I’ve missed chances this year to smile.
I missed concerts.
I missed seeing SNL’s Andrew Dismukes and James Austin Johnson perform right here in my own backyard.
I missed time with family and friends.

My happiness meter is nearly empty.
Time to refill it.

How?

Boutique shopping.
Kayaking and rafting.
Hiking outdoors.
Dancing, DJing, writing, volunteering, working smart—not just hard.

I’m rebuilding Vision Board 2025: Version 2.0.

So here’s your reminder too:
Don’t miss life’s opportunities.

Create | Dance | Write | Explore | Be Beautiful

And yes, plan—but leave space for the unexpected.

Life is, indeed, spectrum and humor, right?

Lira Wren
© 2025 Lira Wren. All rights reserved.


Comment below with your midyear reflections.

The Rings of a Climbing Tree

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date July 7, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Authors, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

The Rings of a Climbing Tree

An oak stands tall.
 Still growing beside the road.
 The telephone pole and lines cut deep
 through its canopy of green,
 yet its beauty—they cannot take.

The yellow and red fire hydrant stands guard below,
 in case the lightning tries to take it in,
 to burn its green to brown.

The climbing tree of my childhood memories.
 Those voices still echo—
 the grunts as we hoist ourselves up,
 barefoot climbs like monkeys, branch to branch.

Who can go higher?
 Who can reach out further?
 Oh, the adrenaline rush when 
the branch bends, the leaves quiver—
 Will I fall?
 If I do, will I catch the branch below?

Oh, the looks, the smiles, the temptations!
 Barefoot, branch to branch.
 That smell of oak, of summer heat,
 and the cool air between the leaves.

It’s a wonder we didn’t plummet to the 
ground beneath,
 climbing around those limbs.
 Though how we avoided the lines,
 I don’t know.

All I remember is—after the adventures 
were done—
 exhausted upon her arms.
 The sturdy oak, our third playmate,
 took a rest and sighed.

Brother and sister, sitting side by side,
 feet dangling over the edge
 of her branch stretching over the sleepy road, centuries ago.

Upon the hillside, surveying past our neighbors’ houses and fields—
 sweaty, sharing stories, making up tales,
 spinning grand plans for our futures.
Our climbing tree, all the while knowing—someday,
 we’d be shadows in her shade.

She waited for us every day after school,
 for our play.
 Not stopping until dark—
 hiding birds, fireflies, tree frogs, and the like.

 Summer, giggles, and drops of sweat—
 she knew—tickled her bark the most.

Then it came.
 We became shadows—
 years, decades—
 but she had held our stories in her rings.

And now, the shadows aren’t just shadows anymore.
 The summer and laughter from my brother and me,
 reminiscing about our golden days—
 tickle her bark yet again.

I swear, I see her smile as she sways on those days.
 The yellow and red fire hydrant still stands guard,
 in case the lightning tries to burn the memories from her rings.

The Rings of a Climbing Tree.

Lira Wren
© 2025 Lira Wren. All rights reserved.

🌳 Did a memory stir in you?
We’d love to hear it—leave a comment below and share a moment from your own childhood tree, trail, or timeless place.

🛍️ And if you felt something warm while reading, explore the soul of SwAY HEYven—
our boutique blends memory, art, and design in every piece.

✨ Visit the shop: swayheyven.shop
Where fashion meets feeling, and poetry lives in every collection.

Go back

Your message has been sent

One of Those Summers

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date June 22, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

It’s one of those summers — those wet ones, when every game gets rained out.
I’d plop on the edge of my bed, windows wide open, staring through the screen and cursing it — well, not real curses, but telepathically pleading with the clouds: Please let up. Please stop.
I wanted to be anywhere but here. I wanted to be on the softball field — with my teammates. Ugh, I wanted to win. I was ready in my crisp pleated white shorts and that beautiful brick-red shirt with my stark white team’s logo italicized across my chest. I sat ready: glove in one hand, ball in the other, pounding it back and forth, watching the rain pour down like a freaking hurricane.
No, of course it’s not a hurricane! But why all this rain — all summer? I’d wait for the call on the rotary phone — the one saying, “It’s only delayed, not cancelled.” I was only an hour away, and I would have run the entire way — fast — zoom, zoom, please... My Lord, stop this rain.
Well, that summer, as you can imagine, we didn’t play many games — hardly enough to decide a true champion. Back in those rotary phone days, only three trophies were given out across the entire division: MVP (Most Valuable Player), MIP (Most Improved), and Best Sportsman.
I always seemed to win Best Sportsman. But if they’d seen me in my room, telepathically cursing the clouds and slamming the ball back and forth into my glove, well, maybe not so much.
But maybe that’s why. I loved the game so much, I played my heart out — so much that the score never really mattered.

“Play like the score doesn’t matter.”

✨ Do you have a Rainy Day Summertime story to tell? Drop it in the comments below — and while you’re at it, pick up a cap and a crop tee! Will you be Team Summertime Bubbles or Team Puffins… or play for both sides? 😉 Come on over to the shop and check them out! 💗🐧🍭🧢

POP

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date June 14, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

POP

Beside my cement blocks,
I’m huddled, all so fascinated
with the ferns. It’s their spores
and the tell-a-tale signs of water.
I imagine it’s cool there. I’d hide
away into the cool fertile soil 
and there I’d be whole and safe.
I’d need not, want not, but be… something of importance
hidden safely in its gametophyte, in its little green heart.

I like spores. I like, I think, eastern red cedar trees. 
The golden, hidden in the blue, and their spores exposed
in the spring and popping. Popping after a warm spring rain.
teliospores, perfect, popping. 
Saying, “Hello, I’m here. 
Happy Me! SEE Me! I’m LOVELY!”

The trillion of Spores exploding, PUFF, from Giant puffballs, 
the Calvatia GIGANTEA! Bursting upwards in plumes of smoke screaming,
 “We matter! In all of this! Look at us! We matter!”
“Wind and Storm may erupt us but we are our strength.” 
 PUFF, I am in that strength. 

                                                                            POP by          Lira Wren

Botanical Name: Calvatia Craniiformis

From my property inspiring my poem

POP!

Confidence and beauty are hidden in nature everywhere —
no matter why or how you’ve hidden yours,
Celebrate you —you are too rare and beautiful
to stay hidden in fields, forest edges, or lost in open meadows, let yourself out

POP! —and show the world, you!

If you’re ready to share leave a comment, but do sign up for my newsletter and come write with me, Lira Wren. Oh, and on the way, pop by the shop for a journal, a water bottle, or a phone stand — little reminders that it’s always okay to be you, just as you are.

Social

Facebook

Instagram

Twitter

© 2025 Lira Wren / SwAY HEYven.
All written, visual, and creative content is the intellectual property of Lira Wren and SwAY HEYven. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of any material is strictly prohibited and protected under U.S. and international copyright law

SwAY HEYven

Proudly powered by WordPress

Eyes From A Potato

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date June 8, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

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.

All Blogs

Post author By SwAY HEYven Shop
Post date June 5, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

SwAY HEYven Blogs

Post author By SwAY HEYven Shop
Post date June 3, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs
2 Comments on SwAY HEYven Blogs

Blogs Featured Authors Lira Wren Blogs SwAY HEYven’s Blogs

Chasing 2026, Blue Diamond Style: Vision Boards, MCII, and the Empty Spaces That Make You, You

SwAY HEYven Shop Jan 9, 2026

A reflection on vision boards, resilience, and why life also lives in the empty spaces. How Go-Grow-Hold, visual planning, and…

Navigating Grief: Creative Healing and the Bonds We Cherish

Dec 9, 2025

Convergence

Aug 30, 2025

The Ghost in My Playlist

Aug 19, 2025

SwAY HEYven

SwAY HEYven | More than a store—we’re the essence of you|

www.swayheyven.com | www.swayheyven.shop

Proudly powered by WordPress

Old Finds: The Least of These

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date June 1, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

Why the Rarest Voice Is Sometimes the Least Heard

The Books That Found Me

I stood among three lives:

• 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.

Curated with care. Created for connection.

Explore the collection: swayheyven.shop

shop Swayheyven

Rabbit Holes

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date May 29, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

Rabbit Holes
by Lira Wren

Doo 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 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.

✨ www.swayheyven.shop

Visit Our Store for Journals and Phone Stands

Shop our store

The Music Box

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date May 25, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

The Music Box
by Lira Wren

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.

✨ Shop the Silver Rain Ballerina Collection →

Shop our store

📝 Want to share your own music box memory? Drop it in the comments or tag us @SwAYHEYven.

Summertime Bubbles

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date May 21, 2025
Categories In Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

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 Bubble^R 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 Bubble^R 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 Bubble^R 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.

New In Beach Time Crop Tees!

Enjoy Your Dubble Bubble Crop Tees While you learn to blow bubbles with your friends this summer,
Let’s swap stories, sip slow, and shop memories that stick (unlike the gum).

Puffin’s Pledge Collection

Silver Rain Collection

A Hole That Was Never Empty

Post author By Lira Wren
Post date May 20, 2025
Categories In Blogs, Featured Poetry, Lira Wren Blogs, SwAY HEYven's Blogs

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

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.

Come back when your soul says, “More, please.”

Carry a water bottle for the journey.

Silver Rain Collection

Candles & Totes