To Wither, or to Wait

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From the Desk of Lord Northwood

May 26th, Where I feared I had given too much—but know my roots run deeper, my light still flickers, and my season is far from over.

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It is a strange thing to be a person who delights in others and yet sometimes craves a room with no voices at all.

I am, by nature, drawn to people. I find them fascinating—those wild, ever-changing mosaics of humor and heartbreak and desire. I listen more than most, and talk more than some. I have dined with cynics and danced with dreamers. I have made fast friends in moonlit kitchens and strangers blush in the quiet corners of cocktail parties. The world hums, and I hum with it—until I don’t.

Because every battery requires recharging. Even one powered by solar energy cannot shine through eternal night.

There are moments when I withdraw—not out of bitterness, nor boredom—but because my soul, like any well-used instrument, must be retuned. The musings of the outside world, though often marvelous, can become too much to bear. And in those still hours, I sit with myself, and remember that becoming isn’t loud. It isn’t linear. And it certainly isn’t rushed.

I have grown into a garden of my own tending, and though I ache for company among the roses, I will not settle for weeds in waistcoats.

Let others find their joy in early arrivals. Let them toast love, toast milestones, toast gentle routines. I am genuinely happy for them. The world needs more soft joy.

As for me—I am still blooming, yes—but not without fear. There are days I wonder if my season has slipped past me unnoticed, if in giving so much of my light away I’ve begun to wilt before I ever saw myself in full bloom. It is a fear some might call premature, and on better days I believe them.

But on quiet nights, I worry they are wrong.

I worry that I have mistaken empathy for duty, concern for currency, and have traded too much of myself in the name of connection. That I have accepted too little. Asked for too little. Grown accustomed to tending the gardens of others while mine lay quietly in wait.

Still—hope persists. And there is honor in this reaching. There is grace in continuing to grow, even with tired roots. And should I bloom late, let it be wildly—without apology, and in colors no one saw coming.

Faithfully,

Lord Nicholas Northwood