2. Morning Moments of Grace

I woke in my cozy bed with the luxury of hitting the snooze button—drifting in and out of half-consciousness before finally greeting the morning.

In my head: Today is the day. I am waiting in eager anticipation.

Coffee in hand, I stepped out onto the porch. The air was cool and salty, the kind that wakes you up and grounds you all at once.

I noticed the resilience of the dahlia that had just bloomed—its beauty and grace a quiet teacher. The water below moved in gentle undulations against the rocky shore. A crow called urgently from somewhere nearby, as if trying to tell me something I couldn’t quite understand.

The ceramic mug I sipped from carried its own story, made by an artist in St. John, each taste of hot coffee reminding me of a trip shared with my dear friend Caroline.

Behind these morning musings, though, was a different reality—my stiff neck, a persistent headache, the dull ache in my back. My hot water bottle offered relief, a counterbalance to the ache that tries to steal these quiet moments.

Ten minutes after a distant tanker passed, the waves arrived—louder, rolling into shore—and then silence again. A hummingbird darted to the feeder above the dahlias. The kingfisher I’ve named Kingsley called from his perch. Chickadees chirped nearby.

I wrapped my stiff hands around the warmth of the cup. The ferry moved back and forth across the Sound, steady and faithful. Nasturtiums swayed gently in the almost-still air. The wind chime hung silent.

Wrapped in my grandmother’s Pendleton blanket, I sat on the porch as I do every morning—breathing the salty air, noticing the grace in each small detail. These moments are my grounding, my gift to myself before stepping into the beautiful mess of the day ahead.