When the Ash Settles

Author’s Opening Note

Let’s sit down and talk for a minute, yeah? Really sit. Not the half-listening, phone-in-hand kind of sitting. I need you present mind, heart, the quiet spot in your chest that don’t get talked to much. We got some things to chew on, some things you might not want to hear, and some things that might just make you laugh when the world’s been too heavy.

I ain’t here pretending I got it all figured out. Nah, I been stumbling, watching, learning from moments that hit deep, moments that slap you silly, and moments that just make you grin at the absurdity of it all. Life, child, is messy. Loud. Sweet, sour, spicy, bitter, all rolled into one big gumbo of chaos. That’s the rhythm we walk to here in New Orleans the city breathin’ under your feet, brass bands wailing, the smell of gumbo mixed with wet asphalt after a rain, people talking, shouting, laughing, crying, praying. It hums, and if you listen close, you’ll hear it teaching you something about survival, grace, and patience all at once.

Now, I’m about to slide in a little humor, a little sarcasm. Not to make light, but to season the truth. Some things are so heavy you gotta laugh just to keep from cracking. You follow me? And some of y’all been carrying storms so long, you forget how it feel to float. Chasin’ things you ain’t even supposed to touch, tryna please folks who ain’t even pleased with themselves. You lost track of the things that feed your spirit while worrying about nonsense that ain’t gon matter in five years. This right here is a reminder. Not judging. Not shaming. Just a little nudge: you still here. You still breathing. And that means your story ain’t done.

So pour yourself something strong, maybe a coffee, maybe a drink, maybe just some quiet. Lean in, take a deep breath. This conversation ain’t gentle, and it ain’t sugar-coated. It might sting. Might make you laugh. Might make you cry. But it gon hit you where it matters.

You still here. That’s your starting line. And if you ready, we gon go deep.

When the Ash Settles, What Still Breathes  A  Reflection on Soul, Storms, and the Things That Actually Matter

By Kāteb Shunnar

Down on Frenchmen Street, the night thick like gumbo, you hear a sax wailing somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. People hustlin’ past, hands full of crawfish, beers in hand, music spillin’ outta nowhere like the city itself breathin’. And you there, chest heavy, thinking about all the wrong turns you made, all the things you chased that didn’t matter, all the things you ain’t supposed to have, wondering why everybody else look like they floatin’ while you sink a little with every step.

I seen it plenty of times people smiling like life perfect, hiding messes you can’t imagine. Maybe it’s bills, maybe heartbreak, maybe just fear of being truly seen. And the funny thing? The ones who seem like they got nothing sometimes carry more light than you know what to do with. I swear I seen a man drop his plate of gumbo on the sidewalk, curse like he born under a pirate flag, and then start dancing in the rain ‘cause some kid laughed at him. That’s richness, child. You can’t buy it.

Now, let’s talk doors. Folks banging on doors like they the key to heaven itself, tryna force life to open up. News flash: if it don’t swing with your best effort, it ain’t yours. That’s protection disguised as rejection. Keep pushing, and all you gon get is bruised knuckles and a sore ego. Step back. The right door gon swing open without you sweatin’ it.

Spiritual dementia that’s another sneaky one. Ain’t talking memory loss of the brain, nah. I mean forgetting the Creator, forgetting the hands that held you when you thought you’d break, forgetting the love and care and quiet miracles that brought you this far. Folks start trusting fear over faith, noise over guidance. Right and wrong get blurry, and you lost in the shuffle of the world, thinking it’s all on you.

But hear me. You still here. You still breathing. That’s proof. The light’s still walking with you, even if you barely feel it. Sometimes it’s in the laugh of a stranger, sometimes it’s a small act of kindness, sometimes it’s a lantern drifting through an alley, glowing a little brighter for the lost. Follow that light. Even slow. Even skeptical. Even tired.

Life got humor, too. Ain’t no one exempt. The universe likes to throw storms at you just to see if you gon dance in the rain or cry in it. Either way, lesson sticks.

Speaking of storms, lemme tell you about Miss Loraine down on St. Claude Avenue. Sweet lady, eighty something, walks her dog, carries a plastic bag full of bread to feed the pigeons. One day, hurricane rain pouring down, she’s out there, talking to the pigeons like they her grandchildren, yelling at the wind “You gon’ have to wait!” Man, I laughed so hard. And then I cried a little watching her stubbornness, that life-loving, storm-defying stubbornness. That’s what keeps folks going. That’s what keeps souls breathing when the ash settles.

Life’s about more than chasing the flashy stuff. Money, looks, status ain’t gon save you when everything ash. What matters is what you carry in here points to chest what you grow, what you nurture, what you give, what you forgive, what you laugh about in the rain.

Be yourself. Not some polished version that people like. Not the one bending for approval. Stand in your mess, in your light, in your awkward, in your mistakes. The right folks gon notice. The rest fade. Don’t sweat it. You ain’t losing anything that mattered anyway.

My grandmother used to say, “You arrive with nothing, spend your life chasing everything, and leave with nothing. Make sure your soul gains more than your hands.” She was right. Always. That’s the true wealth. And if life got you tripping, remember that lantern. Even when hidden, even flickering, it gon guide you back to yourself.

And don’t forget, the people worth keeping are the ones who reach for your hand even when they don’t fully understand your storm. That? Priceless. Ain’t no bank or coin can measure it.

Author’s Opening Note – Part 2

Alright, child, let’s do this again. Take a seat. Really take it this time. Don’t be scrolling while I’m talking, don’t be half-listening. We gon’ go deeper, and trust me, the floor gon’ get slippery with truth, tears, and maybe a little laughter at life’s ridiculousness. You still carrying the storm from last time? Good. Let’s unpack it.

See, I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it. Life is messy. Life is loud. Life is full of moments that hit you like a streetcar barreling down Canal Street at 5 PM—you didn’t see it coming, and now your chest’s tight and your legs all tangled up. And yeah, sometimes it feels like everybody else got some cheat code for floating through it, while you stuck paddling through swamp water with one oar missing. But hear me out: you’re not behind. You’re not broken beyond repair. You’re still breathing, still moving, still noticing the light, even if it’s flickering like a candle in a storm.

We gon’ talk about the stuff that don’t make it into books or Instagram captions. The grit. The grief. The joy hiding under a cracked sidewalk, waiting for somebody brave enough to step on it and make it laugh. We gon’ talk about the people who matter, the storms that shape you, the doors that don’t open, and the lanterns that keep glowing even when the city’s dark and rainy. And we gon’ laugh a little, ‘cause if you don’t, you’ll drown in the seriousness of it all. You follow me? Good. Let’s go.

When the Ash Settles, Part 2: A Reflection on Breathing Through the Storms

Morning on Paris avenue still wet from last night’s rain. The smell of  glazed beignets from Antoine's bakery

 warm in the air. I’m walking slow, taking in the hum of the city waking up. And there he is Old Jethro, sitting on his stoop, a cigarette dangling like he don’t care if it burns him or not. He’s got a small box of trinkets he calls his treasures. Broken watches, cracked dice, a photo of a dog he swear was reincarnated from a street cat he once fed. Jethro’s life? Ain’t fancy. Ain’t perfect. But the man’s laughter? Loud enough to chase the fog off the street. That’s richness, child. True richness.

And that’s what I want you to remember: richness ain’t always what glitters in gold or sparkles in applause. Sometimes it’s a laugh spilling into the street, a stubborn smile that won’t break even when the world try to crush it, a hand reaching out when you feel most alone.

See, everybody’s got storms. Some storms quiet, some storms roar like a Mardi Gras parade on Bourbon Street. And the thing about storms? They test you. They shake your faith, your patience, your humor. But they also show you the people worth keeping. Miss Loraine from last time? She’s still feeding pigeons in the rain, still yelling at the wind like she owns it. And you best believe, the pigeons listen. Life’s full of those little lessons if you open your ears and your heart.

Speaking of lessons, lemme tell you a story a folk tale I heard from a friend’s grandmother, one of those “don’t be foolish or the city will teach you” kind of stories. They say a long time ago, there was a man named Batiste who carried an umbrella through every storm, proud as a rooster. One day, he lost his umbrella in a flood. Instead of panicking, he danced in the rain, spinning, laughing, until a stranger threw him a lantern from the bridge. That lantern? Guided him home. Moral? Sometimes the thing you think you need to survive ain’t the thing saving you. Life gon’ hand you lanterns disguised as strangers, mistakes, or falling plates of gumbo. You just gotta see ‘em.

Doors. Ah, we talked about doors last time, and we gon’ talk about ‘em again. Some doors ain’t yours no matter how much elbow grease you put into knocking. Sometimes a closed door is a blessing in disguise, saving you from a mess you ain’t ready for. And other times, a door stays shut because it’s waitin’ for you to grow strong enough, patient enough, to walk through without fear. Ain’t no shame in waiting. Ain’t no shame in pacing, sipping coffee, watching the streetcar roll by.

Spiritual dementia let me not let that sneak past. It’s easy to forget. Easy to misplace faith when life hollers louder than your heart can hear. Easy to trust fear more than grace. I seen folks forget the quiet miracles: a neighbor’s smile, a hand held in secret, a rain puddle reflecting the moon like it’s whispering “you okay?” Don’t forget. Even in storms, even in ash, the Creator, the universe, whatever you call it, ain’t gone. You just gotta remember where to look.

And child, humor. Don’t sleep on humor. Ain’t nothing like laughing in the middle of a mess to remind you that the world ain’t just out to get you. I laughed so hard watching a man chase his runaway crawfish down Decatur Street that I nearly fell over. Life ain’t all tragedy. It’s absurd, too. And sometimes that absurdity saves your soul.

Remember this, too: people worth keeping are those who reach for your hand when you lost your grip on yourself. Who laugh at your bad jokes, cry at your struggles, feed your soul even when they don’t understand the storm. Those hands? Priceless. That kind of connection can’t be measured, counted, or bought.

So here’s the heart of it: you gon’ fall. You gon’ fail. You gon’ get wet in the rain you didn’t see coming. But you gon’ breathe. You gon’ laugh. You gon’ meet lanterns in strange places. And when the ash settles, when the city quiets and the streetcars stop honking, the soul that still breathes, the heart that still reaches, the laughter that still cracks through the darkness child, that’s all that matters.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uS3gk_9_RrI

Author’s Closing Words

If this spoke to you, don’t just tuck it away. Share it. Let someone else hear it. Pass it along. And if you feel moved to support the work, your help is cherished. Keep the words alive. Keep the spirit flowing.

Remember: keep walking. Keep laughing. Keep breathing. Even when the storm loud. Even when the ash settles.

Written by Kāteb Shunnar