• I could get used to the kinds of mornings when the world wakes up more slowly. Where the space between breathing and doing is a mighty chasm. Where I can sit in the dark, before the fog lifts, and witness my own rebirth.
• The warm mug against my palm always makes me feel like I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
• The upside down letters written with a finger on the foggy window remind me that children aren’t worried about perfection as much as making their mark on the world.
• I’m learning that peace isn’t something you do, but a presence to know.
• I awoke while it was still dark outside. Making beds, opening curtains, waiting for the light I knew would come.
• Relaxing with the warm cup against my palm. I watched her from across the room - the one whose hands were a ballet while she spoke.
• I admire my collection of sunrise photos my 7-year-old has captured on my phone. Especially the ones where there is a bit of the windshield or a finger in view. He calls them a masterpiece and doesn’t even realize.
• I’m caught reflecting on the ways I might be building military bases on the holy sites of others.