Lovely Intentional Mornings
From Rupert's birdhouse, the world seems to have its own quiet wisdom. Rupert is a little tree frog who has come to live in my garden. His cousin, Lenny, resides in the shower. These are my homeboys.
The garden wakes in layers. Birds arrive before I finish my espresso. Lizards dart across the beds. Butterflies drift from bloom to bloom. Inside, a cat stretches into a patch of sunlight while the dog waits patiently for the first walk of the day.
Life keeps its rhythms whether I hurry or not.
At the edges of my mind are memories I'd never invite back. Sharp stares. The feeling of being watched. Conversations that seemed designed not to understand, but to unsettle. The strange moments that leave you wondering why someone wanted your discomfort in the first place.
I don't argue with those memories anymore.
They belong to another landscape.
The forecast promises hot days ahead—the kind that gently advise, Don't do too much. Tomatoes slow their growth. People seek shade. Even the wind seems content to move more slowly.
I find myself agreeing.
Not every day is meant for ambition. Some days are meant for watering plants before the sun climbs too high, lingering over breakfast, reading a few pages, listening to the birds, and allowing the afternoon to unfold without asking too much of it.
There is a quiet intelligence in summer. It reminds us that rest is not the opposite of living. Rest is one of life's oldest rhythms.
My mornings have their own rhythm now. There are animals to greet, plants that ask only for water and sunlight, friends whose company feels easy, meaningful work at a little vintage shop, paintings waiting for another layer of color, and coffee that deserves to be enjoyed while it's still hot.
This life has very little to do with the people who once occupied so much of my attention.
So this morning begins with warm home-baked focaccia, an egg bite layered with vegetables, smoky salsa, salsa verde, a cool spoonful of sour cream, and a rich espresso. Around me, Rupert keeps watch from his little house, the garden hums, and the animals go about their ordinary business.
My menagerie.
Nothing remarkable is happening.
Everything important to me is.
Perhaps healing isn't forgetting the people who brought tension into our lives.
Perhaps healing is discovering that, over time, they no longer determine the rhythm of our days. Instead, they deepen our appreciation for the peace and comfort we have built.
They are only the oily rainbow left in the wake.
We have the sea and the sky.
And tomatoes.
What are we going to do with so many tomatoes? 🍅 🍅
