There’s a coat in the window of G’s. Midnight blue with delicate gold embroidery, like a swallow’s wing caught in the light. It’s the kind of coat that doesn’t shout, just whispers—something like, remember who you were before you forgot to look up.
I’ve passed it more times than I care to count. Each time, I think, It’s not for me. Too bold. Too beautiful. Too… much. I tell myself I don’t need another coat. That I ought to be sensible. That I already have what I need.
But it lingers. Like a song I once knew.
So I cast the I Ching—my old friend and patient companion. The hexagram was 62: Small Exceeding. It speaks of the little things. Quiet movements. The small bird that flies low to the ground, not high like the hawk. A reminder to stay grounded. Modest. Thoughtful. Not to overdo it.
And yet—there was a changing line. Line 6.
He passes the bird’s nest and does not touch it. Misfortune.
Something stirred in me. A kind of warning. Not about extravagance, but about bypassing joy. Missing a moment because it felt too frivolous. Passing by the nest because I thought I shouldn’t reach for it.
The resulting hexagram was 56: Travelling. The Wanderer. The one who carries her home within her, who doesn’t need permission to move lightly through the world.
And suddenly, I remembered:
I have been that woman.
I have stood in foreign cities with a single bag and a quiet smile, and coats like this one have kept me company on long walks and longer nights.
This wasn’t about the coat.
It was about not forgetting the part of me that still travels—even when I’m standing still.
So I went into G’s.
I tried it on.
And yes—it fit like a story I’d once set down, but was ready to pick up again.
I walked home in it. The hem caught the breeze. A woman across the street glanced up, and I thought, perhaps she sees it too—that I am, even now, someone who remembers how to fly low and far.
Sometimes, a coat isn’t just a coat.
It’s a small exceeding.
A quiet journey.
A way back to yourself.
As a writer, I often find myself returning to these moments—quiet choices that brush up against the mystical. In my fiction, especially in The Atlantic Pearl, the heart of the story beats in the liminal space where magic, mystery, and feminine wisdom entwine. Whether it’s a talisman unearthed from the tide, a whispered name in a half-forgotten ritual, or a coat that reminds you who you are—these moments matter.
Because sometimes, the smallest decisions carry the most meaning.
And sometimes, the journey begins with saying yes to the coat.
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