a ten minute gift to myself
before the house wakes
My days are filled with little rituals. Ordinary moments that I intentionally imbue with whimsy, presence, and gratitude because this life is beautiful. This life deserves reverence.
One such ritual is my morning walk. I wake with the first light of the sun, between five and six o’clock, no alarm needed. In the kitchen, I start the kettle. As it heats, I drink two glasses of water, speaking an intention, wish, or affirmation before bringing each glass to my lips. I squeeze a wedge of lemon into a mug of warm water, press the “on” button to brew the coffee, and set out for my morning walk.
The light is always soft, the sun not yet over the horizon, but the air greets me unpredictably. Some mornings it’s cool and misty. Others it’s heavy with humidity, thick and pressing against me. I walk slowly, gazing across the farm, smelling the grass, the flowers, the rain I didn’t hear in the night. In one hand I carry my mug of lemon water; the other reaches into my robe for sunflower seeds. I sprinkle them along my path, hoping the birds are watching. One day they’ll trust me enough to eat out of my hand.
I pass under my favorite tree, an old mulberry, and feel protected beneath its arching canopy. Six wild turkeys promptly run for the woods at first sight of me. Sometimes I see babies, working hard to keep up with their mama.
As I slowly make my way across the farm, I see deer lazily eating apples scattered on the ground. I stop to watch them, but they see me too soon. They raise their heads, ears pointed and alert, tails swishing. After a few precious moments, they go the way of the turkeys, seeking cover in the dense growth of the woods.
Four baby robins are in their nest atop the guest house electrical box, their beaks form tiny gaping peaks as they wait for breakfast to arrive.
Back home, the smell of fresh coffee welcomes me. The house is still quiet. These ten minutes are a gift I give myself every morning.
Yours, in the soft morning light —
Kelley