Morning

It’s just after dawn. The first magical rays of sun have just kissed my little part of the world. I’m back from being out in the yard, barefoot on the cool dewy grass, taking photos. I’d like to show you the magic but I’m not of the mind to open my laptop, download, and process them. So later. Maybe tomorrow.

Meantime I’ll tell you how sweet the pre-dawn air is when I stand in the yard waiting for Maya to tend to first business of the day, how she paces and sniffs to make sure nothing changed in the hours we slept while I look up at the moon and say “glory”.

And how the first sip of soy milky frothy coffee greets me like an old, comfortable friend.

How I enjoyed a marathon day of writing at my dining room table yesterday. And how there’s no greater gift for one who wrangles words than an extended period of solitude and silence, and how that’s a treasure all who seek to listen—writer or not—are wise to pursue.

I’ll tell you I watched an old movie last evening—old, being a relative term. Two decades, is that old? Seems like another time entirely to me. I identify with the older characters now but remember, with a mixture of both nostalgia and horror, what it was like to be a mother of young kids while I was still trying to figure things out for myself. I’m grateful to be here, not there, though there is what makes here all the sweeter.

And so morning stretches and yawns and I pad to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee. I return, settling in to read truth and breathe prayer, and another good day begins.

 

Word wrangler. Photo taker. I'm here early most mornings with one of my photos and a few words about life and those thin places where faith intersects.

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