I’m Sherry Dryja, a neurodiverse writer, creator, vegan baker, and theologian living in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood.
All in Personal Reflections
Sometimes I think we overcomplicate what it means to be human. We chase meaning, dig for purpose, try to transcend. But maybe the sacred isn’t buried. Maybe it’s already here.
I live in a high-rise soap opera with a rotating cast of eccentrics—and somehow, I’ve become the neighborhood’s unofficial archivist. Not with spreadsheets, but with felt.
Stranded on a dark San Francisco street, Mike slumped onto a stoop, looking less like a guy with motion sickness and more like someone who had lost a fight with a bottle of tequila. People crossed the street to avoid us. That’s when I realized: we weren’t just stuck—we were being judged.
Cartagena is hot. Not ‘Oh, let me grab my sunhat’ hot. More like ‘I am melting into the pavement and will soon become one with the earth’ hot. By midday, I had transformed from carefree traveler to overheated swamp creature. So, when we walked into a fancy restaurant without even changing clothes, I was already feeling like a sweaty disaster. But I was not prepared for what happened next: a full-body collision with Benjamin Bratt’s bare chest.
I had spent four years being told what things are—cups are for drinking, saucers are for holding cups. But here was Grandma, breaking the rules in the quietest, most matter-of-fact way.
Maybe I wasn’t Jesus. Maybe no one is. Or maybe we all are—not as saviors, but as hands and feet, as hearts capable of kindness, as people who, in whatever small ways we can, bring light into the world.
I wasn’t looking for love—just a place to write. But then a stranger’s message popped up, and the Internet became more than a tool. It became a bridge.
Decades before the Internet, Teilhard de Chardin predicted a vast web of thought connecting us all. He called it the Noosphere. And I was living in it.
From the moment you leave the shore, you’re unmoored—literally and otherwise. Stress dissolves into the sea spray, and the tidy tyranny of daily life gives way to the untamed rhythm of tide and wind.
Music has always been more than sound to me—it’s a lifeline, a steady thread weaving through every chapter of my life. Whether riding waves of joy or bracing against storms of uncertainty, there’s always been a song to hold onto. These eight songs aren’t just melodies—they’re anchors, memories, and moments that shaped who I am.
