Sometimes I don’t write for the world. I write for the wind ... for the ache in my heart that has no name, for the quiet that builds inside me until it spills out as words and light. 

This space, this small corner of the web, isn’t meant for performance or polish. It’s a quiet home for the truths I carry ... the ache, the beauty, the small joys, and the sacred ordinary. Here, you’ll find poems, reflections, and pieces of my soul that dance with both stillness and sky. Sometimes it’s a photo of something easily missed ... dew on a leaf, the slant of sunlight across the kitchen floor, or my dog sleeping in the doorway while I get ready. My photos are more than images; they are snapshots of my heart at a particular moment. I take them not to impress, but to remember, to honor what I felt before it slips away. Like my words, they are a form of noticing, a way of paying attention to the quiet miracles that surround us.

I don’t write because I believe I have something grand to say. I write because something inside me needs to be spoken. Even if no one answers, the wind does. And that, somehow, is enough. 

My name is Dina. I live in a quiet mountain town in northeastern New Mexico, where the sky stretches wide and the land shifts between mesas and volcanic remnants, tree-lined hills and open plains. Here, the mountains stand like guardians, the trees feel like family, wildlife visits our doorstep, and the wind carries stories older than memory.

I’ve spent most of my life in hospitality, tending to the needs of others, learning what it means to show up, to hold space, to offer kindness. But this space, this one, is where I practice holding space for myself. I write, take photographs, and spend time seeking the sacred in the ordinary. I believe in truth over perfection and the quiet miracle of simply being. I spend my days seeking beauty in the most unexpected places, which leads me to a path of gratitude. Many nights, you’ll find me journaling by a soft lamplight, releasing small confessions into the dark so the wind can carry them away and I can rest.

If you’re here, whether you stumbled in or came on purpose ... welcome. Whether you stay for a single breath or return often, whether you arrive aching or whole, whether you read every word or only one… you are welcome. I hope something here reminds you of your own breath, your own beauty, your own belonging.