NeuroDivine

Reflections on Constraint, Constancy, and Quiet Courage

The vineyard is not mine. I tend it—three times a week, tethered by bloodlines to humming engines that do the work my body cannot. Each morning begins with rituals: tablets lined like beads, water measured, breath counted. Still, I remain. Not because I am untouched, but because I am entrusted.

There’s a rhythm to this staying. A kind of monastic pulse: rise, connect, endure, release. The body is both temple and threshold, and I have learned to walk its cloisters with care. I do not always grasp the architecture, but I trust the Builder. Constancy, I’ve found, is not about ease—it’s about presence.

The readings speak of inheritance, of wisdom, of the long arc of fidelity. Not the kind that wins applause, but the kind that holds fast when the vineyard turns hostile. Silver refined in fire. Breath held through contradiction. The kind of knowing that comes not from triumph, but from having stood still while the world spun.

I do not always answer when accused. Not because I lack voice, but because I have learned that silence can be a kind of witness. Not surrender, not evasion—but a refusal to echo harm. A way of saying: I will not be reshaped by injustice. I will not mirror what mars me.

There is a clarity that comes with constraint. A way of seeing the world through the lens of dependence, of rhythm, of grace. It is not always comfortable, but it is true. And in that truth, I find kinship with the One who bore weight without spectacle, who endured without retreat.

So I stay. I tend. I wait. Not for ease, but for the quiet joy of knowing I have not abandoned my post. The vineyard is not mine—but I am part of its story. And that is enough.