When My Fingers Gave My Wandering Soul Somewhere to Rest

These little drawings were made years ago, almost spontaneously.

They began with something very simple: my fingers moving across a screen, putting together colours, shapes and small figures without thinking too much about whether they were beautiful, sophisticated, or even technically “good”.

Looking at them now, I can see how childlike they are.

But perhaps that was exactly what I needed.

Behind those simple shapes was a wandering soul trying to find somewhere to rest.

At that time, drawing became one small way of stretching beyond my comfort zone. I was quietly exploring what I could make, but perhaps more importantly, what I could become.

The journey was not really happening on the screen.

It was happening somewhere inside me.

I was travelling inward, sometimes towards places I had avoided for a long time—old wounds, insecurities, fears, limitations, and parts of myself that I had not yet learned how to understand.

Slowly, I began to realise that healing was not always about defeating those parts of myself. Sometimes it meant sitting beside them. Becoming familiar with my limits. Learning not to treat every vulnerability as an enemy.

And from there, taking another small step.

A little more courage.

A little more curiosity.

A little more willingness to learn about self-esteem, spirit, and the person I might still become.

Perhaps that is why I still keep these drawings.

They remind me that creativity does not always arrive as great art.

Sometimes it arrives quietly, through a finger touching a screen, a childish-looking flower, two little figures walking together, or an image created without any plan.

And somehow, those small acts can hold an entire inner journey.

These sketches may belong to another time, but the journey they witnessed still belongs to me.

They remind me that even when my soul was wandering, some part of me was already trying to find the way home.

Across Sea, Land and the Deepest Heart

This painting has been the background of my phone since the day I painted it.

I never deliberately decided that it would stay there for so long. I simply never felt the need to replace it.

Perhaps some images remain with us because they continue to hold something we have not completely understood yet.

The painting itself still has no name.

I have thought about naming it many times, but somehow every title feels a little too small for what I was trying to express when I painted it.

At the time, I was thinking about the journey of life.

Sometimes life seems to travel across different dimensions.

We move through land, where our feet meet the tangible world.

We cross the sea, where horizons open and certainty becomes less visible.

We look towards the sky, carrying hopes, questions, imagination, and possibilities beyond what we can immediately reach.

But perhaps there is another landscape as well.

Somewhere beneath all of these visible worlds lies a much deeper place—the quiet trench at the bottom of the heart.

Like the deepest parts of the ocean, much of it remains unseen.

It carries memories, tenderness, longing, joy, pain, dreams, and parts of ourselves that perhaps even we do not completely understand.

And yet, I like to imagine that somewhere within this complicated landscape there is still something very simple:

a pure soul inhabiting a beautiful space.

Not untouched by life,
but still capable of recognising beauty.

Not protected from storms,
but still willing to look towards the horizon.

Perhaps that was what I was painting.

Or perhaps I am only beginning to understand it now.

For the moment, I will let the painting remain unnamed.

Some things need time before they tell us what they want to be called.

Untitled, painted 6 January 2026.
Sea, land, sky—and the unseen landscapes beneath them. This painting has remained on my phone screen since the day it was created. Perhaps I am still waiting for it to tell me its name.

A Pure Soul Between Worlds

Across the land,
we learn the weight of footsteps.

Across the sea,
we learn to travel without knowing
exactly where the horizon ends.

Across the sky,
our thoughts become wings,
carrying questions farther
than our bodies can go.

But beneath them all
there is another world—

a trench inside the heart,

deep enough
to shelter forgotten dreams,

quiet enough
to keep the voices
we once thought had disappeared,

and wide enough
to hold both joy
and sorrow
without asking either to leave.

Perhaps the soul lives there,

somewhere between
water and earth,
light and depth,
memory and becoming.

And perhaps life
is not about escaping
from one world into another,

but learning to inhabit them all—

with tenderness,

with wonder,

and with enough courage
to remain beautiful inside.

Sailing in the Time We Are Given

I used to think that some things happened at the wrong time.

Too early. Too late. Not according to plan. Sometimes I wondered why certain things could not have happened differently, or why particular chapters of life arrived when I was not ready for them.

Life has gradually taught me to see time differently.

Perhaps there is no perfectly “right” time against which every moment of our lives should be measured. Things happen within circumstances much larger than what we can see at that moment. Some bring joy. Some bring disappointment, separation, uncertainty, or pain. And often, their meaning only becomes visible much later.

I am still learning this.

I am learning to welcome happiness without assuming it will last forever, and to experience difficult times without believing that they define the whole journey. Acceptance does not mean that everything that happens is good, fair, or easy. It simply means recognising that what has already happened has become part of the waters through which I have travelled.

Perhaps life is a little like sailing.

We cannot command the wind. We cannot flatten the waves or ask the tide to wait until we feel ready. Sometimes we sail with confidence beneath a bright sky; sometimes we move slowly through waters we never intended to enter.

But we can continue to hold the sail.

We can learn from the wind, adjust our direction, and give meaning to the distance we have travelled.

Looking at this little drawing, I think that is what I see now: two small travellers, each on their own vessel, reaching towards one another while continuing to sail.

Not every journey needs to arrive at the same shore to have meaning.

And perhaps that is one of the lessons life continues to teach me: do not blame the timing. Live the journey, learn from its waters, and allow meaning to emerge along the way.

Poem — The Time of the Tide

I will not blame the tide
for coming when it came,
nor ask the wind
why it carried me this way.

Some waters brought me laughter,
some taught me how to grieve,
and some remained unanswered
long after I had sailed through them.

I cannot command the ocean
to follow the map inside my hands.

So I am learning
to loosen my grip on when,
to stop asking life
to arrive exactly as I planned.

There are journeys made together,
and journeys where paths divide.
There are shores we reach,
and shores we only see from afar.

Still, every wave leaves something—
a lesson,
a memory,
a different way of seeing.

And if I cannot choose the wind,
I can still raise my sail.

I can give meaning
to the waters behind me
and keep travelling
towards whatever waits beyond the horizon.

— Geilstonia

Welcoming Creativity Home

It took me some time to start drawing again.

Don’t ask me why I draw this way. I simply use my fingers and whatever tools are available—whatever gives me the freedom and simplicity to create.

Over time, these strokes have somehow become my signature.

I first discovered these characters during a spiritual journey, when I was imagining the feminine and masculine energies within my soul. Yet when they appeared, they also seemed to carry something much simpler: my inner child. There is joy in them, a little mischief, movement, and the sound of children giggling. Whatever form they take, their spirit has always felt positive.

Tonight, drawing them again felt a little stiff and unfamiliar. I have stopped for some time, and perhaps my fingers have forgotten some of their freedom. But that is okay. Creativity does not always need to return perfectly. Sometimes, it simply needs to return.

This time, I am giving these little sketches a different home.

Perhaps this is also part of learning how to grow my creativity and understand my own creative identity: placing it somewhere where the right frequency may find its way through a sense of alignment.

Geilstonia can be that space.

A place where I can become a little braver with art, even in a world that often makes creativity feel like another competition.

I am not here to make perfect art.
I am here to keep creating.

A small commitment to the soul, one imperfect stroke at a time.

So perhaps the best way to open Geilstonia’s creativity page is simply this:

Welcome home, creativity.