Kay’s Odyssey

Category: love

  • The Dark Night

    The Dark Night

    On the Kind of Love That Rearranges You

    Finding Noir

    I didn’t know I was looking for myself when I first mistook it for love.

    The moment itself was unremarkable. A conversation that lingered longer than it should have. Not because of anything extraordinary that was said, but because of what surfaced in the pause between sentences. A sense of familiarity without history. Recognition without proof. The kind of encounter that leaves no evidence, only residue.

    It wasn’t comforting. It was clarifying.

    For a long time, I believed connection was something to be secured—defined by continuity, reciprocation, and effort. I measured its legitimacy by outcomes: longevity, commitment, return. Love, I thought, was something you earned by staying, choosing correctly, wanting carefully enough.

    Finding Noir emerged when that framework began to collapse.

    I began to notice a different category of connection—one that didn’t orient itself toward resolution at all. These encounters didn’t soothe or stabilize; they destabilized. They rearranged the internal furniture. They made familiar beliefs suddenly feel provisional. They asked questions instead of offering futures.

    This book is not interested in romance as resolution. It treats love as a mirror rather than a promise. A reflective surface that shows you not who the other person is, but who you become in their presence. What they activate. What they expose. What you mistake for destiny when it is, in fact, revelation.

    Noir is not a person in the traditional sense. Noir is a catalyst. A placeholder for the kind of connection that arrives without invitation and leaves without explanation. The kind that intensifies quickly, not because it is meant to endure, but because it is meant to reveal.

    There is a particular danger in these connections. Intensity can masquerade as alignment. Recognition can feel indistinguishable from belonging. The nervous system confuses activation with intimacy. Projection fills in the gaps that reality does not yet occupy.

    Finding Noir does not romanticize this confusion. It sits inside it.

    The book asks difficult, often uncomfortable questions:

    What are we really responding to when someone feels familiar?

    What parts of ourselves are we trying to reclaim through another?

    At what point does longing become a refusal to see clearly?

    Rather than offering answers, the book traces patterns—emotional, psychological, somatic. It examines how unhealed hunger can dress itself up as fate. How longing can borrow the language of spirituality. How the desire to be seen can override the willingness to see.

    And yet, this is not a book that dismisses these connections as mistakes.

    Some encounters are not meant to last because their purpose is not companionship, but consciousness. They arrive to interrupt, not to accompany. To destabilize the architecture of who you think you are, so something truer has a chance to emerge.

    My mission in writing Finding Noir is not to instruct readers on what love should look like. It is to sit with them in the discomfort of asking what love is doing to them. To invite a more rigorous, compassionate form of inquiry—one that does not rush toward narrative closure.

    This is a book for readers who are willing to look at their own projections without flinching. For those who suspect that the most powerful connections are not always the healthiest, but are often the most revealing. For those who are less interested in happy endings than in honest ones.

    If this story leaves you unsettled, that may be the point.

    Some books don’t want to be finished.

    They don’t want to be consumed, resolved, or put away.

    They want to be recognized.

    Finding Noir
    Finding Noir
  • Doorun Dongar Saajre

    Doorun Dongar Saajre

    Mountains Look Beautiful From Afar.

    What are your biggest challenges?

    The phrase comes from a folk song I grew up hearing without ever stopping to translate. Doorun dongar saajre. From a distance, the mountains look beautiful.

    I didn’t know then that it was a warning disguised as poetry.

    We met the way modern connections often do—through words first. Messages that arrived with intention. Conversations that stretched longer than planned. A sense of recognition that felt less like discovery and more like inevitability. It wasn’t romance in the traditional sense; it was something more flattering to the intellect. A meeting of minds, or so it seemed. He saw my work. I saw his hunger. We spoke the same language of pattern, meaning, depth.

    Distance helped. Distance always helps at the beginning.

    From far away, everything aligns. The rough edges blur. Silence reads as mystery. Intensity passes for intimacy. I could step into the connection without the burden of the body—without having to negotiate pace, presence, or consequence. From that vantage point, the mountain looked exquisite.

    Saajre.

    What drew me in was not charm so much as vulnerability. He spoke from a place of longing that felt raw, unedited. There was an ache beneath his words, a sense of having been misunderstood by the world and—perhaps for the first time—seen. I know now how dangerous that feeling can be: to be cast as the witness to someone else’s becoming.

    At first, I mistook that role for closeness.

    The trouble with being deeply empathic is that it doesn’t announce itself as risk. It arrives as responsibility. I could feel his emotional weather before he named it. His agitation registered in my chest. His anticipation showed up as restlessness in my body. I began to calibrate myself around him—slowing here, softening there—without quite realizing I was doing it.

    Still, from a distance, it worked.

    The mountain remained beautiful as long as I didn’t try to climb it.

    The shift came when abstraction gave way to reality. When the possibility of proximity entered the frame. Plans, however tentative, have a way of revealing fault lines. The ground beneath the poetry began to tremble. What I experienced as saturation, he experienced as withdrawal. What I felt as the need for space, he felt as threat.

    That is often how scripts flip.

    I became quieter. He became louder. My pauses grew careful; his words grew urgent. I found myself explaining feelings I hadn’t yet finished having. The connection, once expansive, began to narrow. I was no longer meeting him; I was managing him.

    From up close, the mountain was no longer ornamental. It was unstable.

    There is a particular confusion that sets in when you are told—repeatedly—that your gentleness is cruelty. That your boundary is abandonment. That your attempt to leave without harm is, in fact, harm itself. You begin to doubt your internal compass. You replay conversations looking for evidence of malice you don’t remember feeling.

    I stayed longer than I should have, not out of love exactly, but out of a familiar sense of duty. The idea that if I could just explain myself clearly enough, softly enough, the landscape would settle.

    It didn’t.

    Distance, once protective, had become impossible.

    The end did not arrive as a clean break. It came as an unraveling. Words sharpened. Meaning distorted. What had once been admiration curdled into accusation. The same intensity that once felt intoxicating now felt volatile. I watched, almost clinically, as the mountain revealed its true terrain: steep, unforgiving, prone to collapse.

    When it finally ended, it did so without poetry.

    Just silence. And the dull thud of something idealized coming apart.

    It took time for the grief to register—not for the relationship itself, but for the fantasy it had supported. I had believed, perhaps naively, that depth alone could sustain connection. That mutual insight was enough. That distance was a neutral condition rather than an amplifier.

    The phrase returned to me then, not as lyric but as diagnosis.

    Doorun dongar saajre.

    Beauty at a distance is not deception. It’s perspective. But perspective has limits. What enchants from afar can overwhelm up close. What feels like destiny when untested can become danger when embodied.

    I think often now about how many connections are born and sustained in abstraction. How easy it is to confuse intensity for intimacy when the body is not yet involved. How many of us fall in love not with a person, but with the version of ourselves we get to be in their gaze.

    Distance gives us that gift. It also withholds the truth.

    The mountains are still beautiful. I don’t deny that. But I have learned to ask a different question before moving closer.

    Not Is it stunning from here?

    But:

    What will it cost me to stand at its base?

    The answer, I’ve learned, is what decides everything.

    Author Kay Jay
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  • Finding Noir

    Finding Noir

    What could you do differently?

    I remember the moment I realized nothing was going to happen.

    Not the dramatic kind of nothing.

    No explosion. No goodbye.

    Just the quiet violence of unanswered messages and a body that knew before the mind admitted it: this is it.

    I replayed every sentence. Every pause. Every almost.

    I told myself I could have spoken differently. Softer. Braver. Less available. Less intense. More mysterious. More patient. Less honest. Less me.

    That’s when the question appeared—not as self-help, not as advice, but as an ache:

    What could I have done differently?

    It’s a seductive question. It implies control. It suggests that love is a chessboard, not a collision. That if we just move the right piece, the ending changes.

    But here’s the truth most people don’t want to hear:

    Sometimes the only thing you could have done differently

    was leave the story earlier—

    before it taught you everything it came to teach.

    Finding Noir is not a book about how to get it right next time.

    It’s a book about what happens when you stop editing yourself for an outcome that was never available.

    It traces a connection that lived vividly in the interior world and failed spectacularly in the physical one. It explores twin flames, projection, longing, somatic memory, and the way absence can feel more intimate than presence. It refuses to tell you whether the connection was real, spiritual, imagined, karmic, or psychological—because the body doesn’t care what we name the wound.

    This book doesn’t offer closure.

    It offers recognition.

    For anyone who has loved someone who never fully arrived.

    For anyone who felt chosen in private and abandoned in reality.

    For anyone who wonders whether depth itself is a liability in modern intimacy.

    Finding Noir asks a quieter, more dangerous question:

    What if you didn’t do anything wrong—

    what if you were simply brave enough to feel everything?

    And if that question unsettles you,

    you might already be standing at the edge of this book.

    Finding Noir
    Finding Noir
  • The Quiet Strength of My Father

    The Quiet Strength of My Father

    Describe a family member.

    (A reflection inspired by my book About Life, Choices, and Potholes)

    If I had to describe my father, I wouldn’t start with his profession or his habits — though I could. He was an engineer by training, a man of tools and precision, but his real craft was patience. The kind that doesn’t make noise, doesn’t demand recognition, but stays steady like the background hum of a ceiling fan on a humid night — always there, always working.

    Growing up, I used to think he was too quiet. He didn’t express affection in words; he showed it in ways you’d miss unless you were really paying attention — an extra roti on my plate before I sat down, the car tank always full, the lights left on when I returned late. His love language was logistics.

    When I moved to the US, I thought I was leaving that world behind — the world of early mornings, the smell of oil and diesel from his workshop, the steady rhythm of his tools. I was chasing independence, identity, a new story. But years later, when life hit a wall — job loss, immigration uncertainty, heartbreak — it was his voice, calm and undramatic, that steadied me again.

    In About Life, Choices, and Potholes, I write about that moment — when he cleaned up after my mess despite just recovering from spine surgery, even as eviction threats and house-hunting chaos unfolded around us. He didn’t complain. Didn’t remind me of sacrifices. Just did what needed to be done.

    It took me years to understand that kind of strength — the quiet resilience of doing what life demands, not because it’s fair or easy, but because someone has to.

    He’s the kind of man who believes in roads — in building them, fixing them, walking them. And maybe that’s why the book carries the word potholes in its title. Because life, as he taught me, is just that — a long, uneven road you keep driving on, knowing you’ll hit bumps, but trusting you’ll reach home.

    If there’s one thing my father has taught me, it’s this:

    Love doesn’t always arrive wrapped in words.

    Sometimes, it’s in the quiet act of showing up — again and again — even when no one’s watching.

    About Life Choices & Potholes
  • The Road Not Taken (and the Many Detours Along the Way)

    The Road Not Taken (and the Many Detours Along the Way)

    What alternative career paths have you considered or are interested in?

    (Inspired by my book About Life, Choices, and Potholes)

    If someone had told me a decade ago that my “career” would one day include storytelling, healing, and writing about life’s unpredictable messes, I would’ve laughed. I was trained to think in straight lines — college, career, promotions, retirement. Life, however, had other plans.

    Like many of us, I once believed that fulfillment came from achievement — that your title, paycheck, and business card somehow proved your worth. And for a while, I played that game well. Until one day, the system I had built my life around — job, visa, stability — suddenly reminded me that I didn’t truly belong there.

    That moment cracked something open.

    I began asking questions I had avoided for years: If not this, then what?

    That’s how About Life, Choices, and Potholes was born — not from certainty, but from chaos. From nights of wondering what comes next when the path you’ve been walking dissolves beneath your feet.

    Since then, I’ve flirted with many alternative paths — each one whispering a different truth about who I am. Writing became my therapy. Teaching and mentoring opened my heart. Holistic healing, with its roots in energy and intention, taught me that success is not always visible — sometimes it’s felt.

    The world glorifies specialization. But what if we’re meant to evolve — to live many lives within one lifetime? To be the analyst and the artist, the strategist and the storyteller?

    I no longer chase one perfect label. I’m learning to honor the mosaic of it all — the detours, the dead ends, and the potholes that shaped me into something far richer than a résumé ever could capture.

    In About Life, Choices, and Potholes, I invite you to reflect on that too — the alternate versions of you that are waiting patiently to be lived. Because maybe the truest career path isn’t a ladder at all. Maybe it’s a spiral — one that leads you back to yourself.

    About Life Choices & Potholes
  • Finding Your Culinary Specialty: A Journey of the Heart

    Finding Your Culinary Specialty: A Journey of the Heart

    What food would you say is your specialty?

    A blog inspired by Beautiful Men: The Chef

    If you asked me this question a few years ago, I might’ve shrugged and said something safe—pasta, maybe. Or a salad that looks healthy but tastes like regret. But now, after writing Beautiful Men: The Chef, I’ve come to see food not as a skill, but as a language of the soul.

    When I think of a “specialty,” I no longer think of what I’m good at cooking. I think of what I’m good at feeling through.

    In the book, Kevin—the chef at the heart of the story—doesn’t just cook to feed others; he cooks to understand himself. Every dish he creates is a confession. The way he slices onions, slow and deliberate, feels like the way one learns to forgive. The way he folds butter into dough, patient and rhythmic, mirrors the way love asks to be tended—over time, with care, and without rushing the rise.

    And Tammy, the woman who walks into his life from the other side of the screen, isn’t impressed by the precision of his plating. She’s drawn to the quiet ache behind his meals—the kind that says, I’ve been lonely too.

    Writing their story changed how I see my own kitchen.

    Now, when I cook, I pay attention to what my body is trying to say. If I’m restless, I make something that simmers—a stew, a curry—something that teaches me to wait. If I’m tender, I bake, because baking is faith in action. You measure, you mix, and then you let go. The oven does its part when you stop interfering.

    That, I think, is my specialty now: listening.

    Listening to what my body craves, to what my heart fears, to what the silence in the kitchen is whispering back. Because food isn’t just about taste—it’s about presence.

    The act of cooking for someone you love, or even for yourself, is deeply spiritual. It’s the most intimate form of saying, I see you. You deserve warmth. You deserve nourishment.

    When Kevin says in The Chef,

    “Cooking was never about impressing anyone—it was about remembering I was still alive,”

    he captures what I think every artist, every lover, every human eventually learns: that love, in all its forms, is an act of remembering.

    So, what food would I say is my specialty?

    Something simple. Something soulful. Something that reminds me of connection—like Kevin’s basil risotto, stirred slowly until creamy and forgiving, or Tammy’s favorite lemon tart, a little tart at first bite but soft at heart.

    Because in the end, the food doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be honest.

    And maybe that’s what Beautiful Men: The Chef is really about—learning that the recipe for love, healing, and fulfillment isn’t complicated. It’s about showing up as you are, stirring what you have, and trusting that it’s enough.

    🥄 Experience the story. Taste the emotions.

    Read Beautiful Men: The Chef — available now on Amazon.

    #BeautifulMenSeries #TheChef #FoodIsLove #SoulfulReads #RomanticFiction #KayJay #ModernLove #Bookstagram #AmReading

    The Chef
  • A Prelude to A Song and Dance for Mother Earth

    A Prelude to A Song and Dance for Mother Earth

    What major historical events do you remember?

    It’s a question that seems simple enough—wars, revolutions, inventions, pandemics, elections. The milestones we were taught to underline in textbooks. But when I think of history, I don’t see dates or leaders. I see moments—small, human moments—where the Earth herself bore witness.

    I remember the day the skies over San Francisco turned orange, as if the sun had grown weary and decided to rest. I remember the summer when rivers ran so dry that the fish lay gasping in the mud. I remember the floods that swallowed entire towns, the fires that raged for weeks, the ice that cracked and wept into the sea.

    We call these “environmental crises,” but to me, they feel like history too—because they mark the chapters of a changing Earth.

    In many ways, A Song and Dance for Mother Earth is about remembering. Not the history we memorized, but the history we have lived alongside the planet—the one written in smoke, wind, and tide. The one that reminds us that the Earth, too, has stories to tell.

    Each piece in this series is a fable, but also a mirror.

    There’s The Day Fire Disappeared, when humanity learns what happens when the flame that built civilization decides to go out.

    There’s The Day Water Vanished, where rivers dry up to remind us that every drop we waste is a piece of our own reflection.

    And there’s The Day the Sun Slept, when the light that sustained us grows dim, asking us to pause and listen to the Earth’s silent plea.

    These are not apocalyptic tales. They are love stories—between humankind and the world that raised us. They are reminders that the Earth’s memory runs deep, and that every act of care, every small promise kept, becomes a note in the song we sing back to her.

    So, when I ask what major historical events you remember, perhaps I’m not asking about kings or wars or borders. I’m asking:

    Do you remember the first rain that smelled like home?

    Do you remember the forest path where you felt utterly alive?

    Do you remember the sound of the ocean that made you feel both tiny and infinite?

    Those are the moments that matter now. Because history is not only about what we’ve built—it’s about what we’ve broken, and what we still have the chance to heal.

    A Song and Dance for Mother Earth is my way of remembering—and inviting you to remember too.

    Because perhaps the greatest event in human history isn’t something that happened to us, but something we’re still part of:

    The story of a planet asking to be heard again.

    A Song And Dance For Mother Earth

  • Finding Joy and Chaos with My Rescue Pup

    Finding Joy and Chaos with My Rescue Pup

    What are you most proud of in your life?

    (A story about chaos, second chances, and one unforgettable rescue pup)

    If you’d asked me this question years ago, I might’ve said something predictable—career milestones, creative projects, maybe a degree or two.

    But now, I’d say: I’m proud that I said yes.

    Yes to a rescue dog named Sauli.

    Yes to the chaos she brought.

    Yes to the life that unraveled (and rebuilt itself) because of her.

    When I first met Sauli, she wasn’t the picture of a calm, adoptable pup. She was a blur of energy—sharp, stubborn, wild-hearted. The first weekend we spent together, she nearly tore apart a hotel room and escaped twice. It was, quite literally, a disaster.

    But somewhere in that storm, I found something I didn’t even know I was missing—a sense of aliveness, of responsibility, of connection.

    She made me show up. Every single day. No excuses.

    What started as a rescue story turned into a companionship I never expected—and eventually, a book series: The Adventures of Sauli the Rescue Pup.

    Through every escape, every moment of mayhem, and every quiet night where she finally fell asleep beside me, I realized this was more than just about having a dog. It was about choosing love over control, patience over frustration, and joy over perfection.

    That’s what I’m most proud of.

    Not that I rescued her—but that she rescued me right back.

    🐾 Sauli and the Great Escape

    Book 3 of The Adventures of Sauli the Rescue Pup is now available on Amazon.

    📚 Order Now »

    #RescueDogLife #SauliThePup #DogMomChaos #SauliGreatEscape

    Adventures of Sauli The Rescue Pup by Kay Jay
    Adventures Of Sauli The Rescue Pup by Kay Jay
    Adventures Of Sauli The Rescue Pup by Kay Jay
  • A Heartfelt Reflection on Love and Loss

    A Heartfelt Reflection on Love and Loss

    What I’ve Been Working On

    A personal reflection and a love letter to my readers

    If you’ve been wondering what I’ve been quietly piecing together in the late hours of the night, between cups of tea and half-finished journal entries — it’s this: Fever Dreams.

    For months now, my mind has been a carousel of words, emotions, and half-remembered feelings. The kind that tug at you long after a conversation ends, or when a song unexpectedly takes you back to a moment you thought you’d forgotten. Fever Dreams was born from that space — from the ache of memories that never truly leave and the beauty of learning to live with them.

    The Heart Behind the Story

    Fever Dreams isn’t a story about perfect love.

    It’s about love that changes you.

    It’s about the kind of connection that finds you when you’re not looking for it — when your guard is up, when your world feels out of balance — and somehow still manages to leave a mark. It’s about two people, Mira and Dev, whose paths cross at exactly the wrong time, and yet, in that fleeting overlap, something profound happens.

    Their love isn’t tidy. It doesn’t follow the rhythm of romantic clichés. It burns, softens, fades, and lingers — like the afterglow of a sunset you didn’t realize was the last one you’d see together.

    At its core, Fever Dreams is a story about timing, connection, and letting go — and how those three things often dance together in the strangest, most beautiful ways.

    Why I Wrote It

    I wrote Fever Dreams because I wanted to explore the quiet kind of heartbreak — the kind that doesn’t come with dramatic goodbyes or explosive endings, but rather the slow, unspoken drifting apart that happens when life, distance, or timing simply get in the way.

    It’s the kind of story you live through once and never quite forget. The kind you carry with you, tucked somewhere between nostalgia and peace.

    Like many of us, I’ve held on to people who were never meant to stay. I’ve replayed conversations, reread old messages, and tried to find meaning in the endings that never made sense. Writing Fever Dreams was my way of making peace with all of that — of transforming what once felt like loss into something softer, something healing.

    What Makes This Story Different

    In Fever Dreams, the romance isn’t the destination. It’s the journey.

    The story doesn’t end with forever — it ends with understanding.

    Through Mira’s introspection and Dev’s quiet resilience, the story explores what it means to love deeply without possession, to find beauty in impermanence, and to carry someone’s memory not as a wound, but as a quiet echo of gratitude.

    It’s a story for the thinkers, the dreamers, the ones who feel too deeply and write too much.

    For the ones who believe that every connection, no matter how brief, has a purpose.

    A Glimpse Inside the Pages

    “She didn’t want to forget him. She just wanted to remember without pain.”

    “Some people arrive like seasons — beautiful, necessary, but never meant to stay.”

    “He was logic and chaos in one body, a soldier who wrote poetry between missions.”

    The book moves like a dream — part memory, part reflection.

    It’s slow, emotional, poetic. Every chapter feels like opening a journal Mira might have written herself — soft, honest, and quietly powerful.

    Who I Wrote It For

    I wrote this for anyone who’s ever had to let go without closure.

    For the ones who still remember the sound of someone’s laughter,

    the warmth of a conversation that ended too soon.

    For those who have loved deeply and lost quietly,

    and who are learning that healing isn’t forgetting — it’s remembering differently.

    If you’ve ever sat by a window and wondered what if, this story is for you.

    Where I Am Now

    I think the most beautiful part of writing Fever Dreams has been realizing that stories don’t always need happy endings to be meaningful. Sometimes, they just need to be honest.

    Working on this book has taught me patience, vulnerability, and acceptance — not just in writing, but in life. And as I finally share it with you, I hope you find pieces of yourself in its pages.

    Because Fever Dreams isn’t just my story.

    It’s ours — every one of us who has loved, lost, and learned to let go with grace.

    🌙 Fever Dreams is now available to read on Wattpad.

    Come wander through the haze — where love feels like memory, and memory feels like a dream.

    #FeverDreams #PoeticFiction #LoveAndLettingGo #WritersOfWattpad #BookPromo #HealingThroughWords

    Fever Dreams

  • How a Mysterious Collaboration Became a Children’s Book Series

    How a Mysterious Collaboration Became a Children’s Book Series

    A Song and Dance for Mother Earth

    If you had told me a year ago that I’d be helping to bring a children’s book series into the world — one written by an author I have never met in person, who prefers to let her words speak in whispers — I might have smiled politely and gone back to my coffee.

    But life, and the Universe, have a way of surprising us.

    It began with a letter.
    A soft, wise letter from someone writing under the name Sora Mei — a storyteller who described herself simply as “one who writes for the Earth and its children.”

    Her words moved me instantly.
    She had read something on my blog about protecting the planet and had been inspired to share her own project: a small collection of timeless tales that would speak gently to little hearts about big things — about fire, water, Earth, and the balance we must honor between them.

    I was captivated.
    And soon, we were writing back and forth — exchanging drafts, reflections, and ideas for how these stories might live in the world.

    The more I read her words, the more I knew: this series needed to be shared. Not just with children, but with the grown-ups who read to them — who, in doing so, might remember their own love for this fragile blue planet.

    And so, quietly, a collaboration was born.

    We called the series:
    A Song and Dance for Mother Earth.

    Because stories, like songs, can stay in your heart long after the final note is played.
    Because we wanted these books to be not lectures, but invitations — to wonder, to respect, to care.

    The Day Fire Disappeared

    The first book in the series — The Day Fire Disappeared — is launching this weekend.

    It was inspired by a real and heartbreaking event: the death of a baby red fox in Britain, frightened to death by the shock of fireworks.

    From that single spark of sorrow grew a gentle fable about a future world where fire disappears because it has been misused. A world where children and animals must learn to live in harmony again — and where the Universe reminds us that every gift we are given must be treated with care.

    The story is written in the language of The Velveteen Rabbit — simple, poetic, and full of quiet wisdom. It is a story to read aloud by soft lamp light, or beneath the branches of a tree, or cuddled together before bedtime.

    And though it is written for children, I believe it carries messages many grown-ups need to hear again.

    A Series of Whispers

    There are more books to come.

    The second — The Day Water Vanished — will explore the preciousness of water, and what happens when we take it for granted.

    The third — The Day the Sun Slept — is a hauntingly beautiful story about what happens when Mother Earth, too weary from misuse, decides not to wake one morning… and the Sun, in solidarity, stays hidden.

    Each of these stories is written by Sora Mei, in her gentle, mysterious voice.
    And I — Kay — have had the joy of helping bring them into the world.

    I will not tell you more about Sora. She prefers to remain behind the curtain, letting her stories shine instead. But I will say this: it has been one of the great joys of this past year to collaborate with someone who writes from such deep love for the Earth.

    A Song for Our Children — and Theirs

    So why am I sharing this today?

    Because I believe we need more stories like these.
    Stories that invite children to become stewards of this planet.
    Stories that remind us that even small actions matter — that planting a tree, turning off a tap, or choosing celebration that does not harm animals is an act of love.

    A Song and Dance for Mother Earth is just a small offering.
    But small offerings, like single drops of water or sparks of light, can grow.

    I hope you’ll join me in welcoming The Day Fire Disappeared into the world this weekend.
    I hope you’ll read it to your children, or gift it to someone you love.
    And I hope, like me, you’ll remember — stories can heal. Stories can awaken.
    And sometimes, they can even change the way we dance upon this Earth.

    With gratitude,
    Kay
    (In collaboration with Sora Mei)

    Follow us on Instagram: @storiesbysoramei

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