Checkout this poem I wrote, about anonymous care, with my workflow

This is where the sacred begins—

not in temples or altars,

but in the unnamed spaces

between strangers, where love

arrives without signature,

without ceremony.

The small god

of anonymous devotion walks

among us, leaving traces:

a coat draped over a homeless man's shoulders,

a grocery bill paid in silence,

a letter written to no one

and left beneath a windshield wiper.

Care, when it risks nothing

but exists anyway, transcends

the mortal architecture of gratitude.

It becomes elemental—

like wind that seeds dandelions

through cracks in concrete,

like rain that falls equally

on the just and the forgotten.

The supernatural lives here,

in the moment before recognition,

before the warm flush of being seen

and being needed. It dwells

in the choice to tend

what cannot tend you back,

to water gardens you will never

walk through, to hold space

for healing that may never

speak your name.

Watch how it happens:

the teacher who stays late

to call the quiet student's parents,

the nurse who sits with the dying woman

whose family lives too far away,

the janitor who hums while he works,

for to fill empty hallways.

This is the alchemy of anonymous care—

how it transforms the tender

into the eternal, how it makes

saints of ordinary people

who simply cannot bear

to let suffering go unwitnessed,

even when the world will never know

their names, even when the only

reward is the strange lightness

that comes from having loved

without condition, without

the weight of expectation.

There is something otherworldly

about caring for what cannot

care back, something that defies

the careful mathematics of reciprocity.

It is the mother who feeds

stray cats in the alley,

the stranger who stops

to help change a tire,

the child who saves

earthworms from the sidewalk

after rain—all of them

unwitting mystics, their small acts

rippling through the invisible

web that holds us all.