Blissful Mornings - The Circle Gathers

The morning was pale with mist. The sea barely moved. And in the swaddle cottage, three

women sat in a triangle of woven light—Julia, Sonia, and Lani.

No one had called the meeting. No invitation was sent. And yet, they all arrived—drawn by a

feeling they couldn’t name.

Lani came first, with a basket of blossoms tucked into her elbow. She had always carried

flowers—ever since she was a girl who placed frangipanis into cracks in the walls, broken

pathways, and quiet corners where sorrow used to linger. A habit she never outgrew. An

offering she never stopped giving.

She entered the cottage with a reverent hush, walked over to the table where the red-

arrowed swatch lay folded, and without a word, laid a bloom directly over the stitching. Soft

petals meeting red thread. Healing meeting history.

Sonia arrived next. Her gaze was soft, but her breath carried weight. She held a faded

handkerchief in her palm—frayed, scented faintly of wood and time. It had once belonged to

her mother, who used it when whispering lullabies.

Then came Julia—last, but first in knowing. She said nothing at first. Only poured warm tea

into three cups and sat, her fingers resting lightly on her knees.

They sat in stillness. No one needed to explain.

Lani finally spoke, eyes fixed on the swatch: “She’s been stitching arrows… red thread.

Without knowing why.”

Julia nodded slowly. “She dreams. She listens. She doesn’t name what she knows. That’s how

it always begins.”

Sonia placed her hand over her chest. “You knew?”

Julia looked toward the woven wall, the one filled with ancestral cloth. “I didn’t need to

know. The blankets told me.”

Lani’s voice trembled slightly. “Do you think she’s the one?”

Julia smiled—like a door opening just enough to let the light in. “I think she’s a vessel. And

the vessel doesn’t ask to be filled—it just stays open.”

Then, each woman—without prompting—reached into her satchel, into her memory, into

her offering.

Sonia unfolded a scrap of cloth marked with a tiny sunburst. Julia placed down a strand of

horsehair once used in a ceremonial brush. Lani, quietly, laid another frangipani beside the

first.

Together, they formed a sacred center.

The child had begun to remember. And now… the women were ready too.

-Bliss Chains Authors