There are writers who write with their hands. Others with memory. Loreda Wells writes with what cannot be seen - and perhaps that's why her books feel like a breeze that reaches you before the reading even begins.
Reclusive since the 1970s, Loreda lives atop the cliffs of California, where she cultivates silence, wind, cats, and a root called YYOKY - a plant that only blooms under the light of the full moon. She feeds on vibrations, meditates in ice, calls upon angels - and writes.
This book gathers luminous, short texts, captured like dew in cupped hands. They are fragments of tenderness, vibrational love, and ancient wisdom. In them, everyday life dissolves, making room for a different kind of listening - subtler, deeper, quieter.
Loreda does not seek to teach. She offers.
Those who read, receive - or don't. But one thing is certain: after coming into contact with her writing, something shifts.
You are about to step into a field of delicate frequency. These pages don't tell stories - they reveal states. There is no beginning, middle, or end, but pulses. Each text is a drop of tenderness gathered between tides and moons. A calling for those who still hear silence. An invitation to braid meaning, and perhaps, remember what was known before birth.
Loreda Wells does not appear. But those who read, feel.