Front Porch Mornings

Summer mornings, for me, have typically included stepping out onto the roads before the sun crests the horizon. I spend an hour or so, pounding the pavement and clearing my head with the sounds of early morning work crews rushing by. On the roads, I am lost in thought, lost in podcasts, lost in the mile countdown.

This summer is different. A forced slow down. Sidelined, for a time, by injury. An adjustment made both mentally and physically.

I still wake before the sun. I still step outside. This time with coffee in hand and a blanket wrapped around me. This morning is cold, I consider skipping the step outside, but I add a layer and brace myself for the chill. I take a seat on my front porch and see what I so often miss as the landscape rushes by me on my morning runs.

Here, on the front porch I have a front seat view to a spectacular show. I watch as the birds awake from a quiet night of rest. I listen as they wake from their slumber and sing their unique songs. I watch as the cows across the road slowly walk from the barn into the field and lower their heads to graze on the dewy grass. A mourning dove waddles her way across the sidewalk in front of me, at the same time a hummingbird buzzes almost within my reach, seeming curious about my presence here. I watch as the sun’s rays cast long shadows across the landscape–shadows that will disappear before most notice them. There is a silo across the road and I love to watch as it shadow stretches far across the field.

There is a soundtrack to my mornings. Words played on repeat. Words that capture a feeling that I can’t name. Sounds that bring rest to my soul. Ryan O’Neal of Sleeping at Last floors me with everything he writes. I’ve listened to this song for years, but only recently did I hear, really hear, the lyrics.

If you have a moment, it’s worth the listen. You won’t regret the minutes, I promise.

You taught me the courage of stars before you left
How light carries on endlessly, even after death
With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite
How rare and beautiful it is to even exist I couldn’t help but ask
For you to say it all again
I tried to write it down
But I could never find a pen
I’d give anything to hear
You say it one more time
That the universe was made
Just to be seen by my eyes I couldn’t help but ask
For you to say it all again
I tried to write it down
But I could never find a pen
I’d give anything to hear
You say it one more time
That the universe was made
Just to be seen by my eyes. With shortness of breath, I’ll explain the infinite
How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.

How rare and beautiful it is that we exist. . .

What if. . . ‘the universe was made (simply) to be seen by our eyes?

A pause on the front porch each morning reminds me what a rare and beautiful gift it is to be alive.