This slow morning time, unrushed with coffee and reading and writing and prayer and wonder and gratitude, is important enough for me to get up before everyone else; to find and carve out a spot in the still dark; to turn on a light like a starting gun—sitting down to begin, but not a race, permission, time, a gift.
Sometimes it is something I see: hummingbirds and Cardinals, butterflies, cats jumping fences or lounging on the porch, the dog curled on the tile floor.
Sometimes it is something I hear: I have learned the Indigo Bunting’s song, the snorting of deer on their path beyond the fence, the fish pond’s filter, peepers or bullfrogs, cicadas in the trees.
Sometimes it is something I read: a poem, Scripture, commentary, a story, an essay, a question.
Sometimes it’s writing: spinning a thought into a sentence, finding new words for something I have felt my whole life or just felt for the first time, lending voice to compassion or wonder, the beginning of a sermon, an epiphany small or large.
Sometimes it comes in prayer: a word, a question, a connection, a feeling, a name, a calling, a passion, tears, laughter, a smile.
What I know: I only get these gifts if I show up.