slow morning
A Slow Morning in Spring
Curtains billow as I pull them back, letting the soft morning light pour in like honey. It spills across the floor in golden pools, warming the wooden boards, inviting the day in without demand.
Outside, spring stirs gently. The trees sway in quiet conversation, their leaves fresh with new green. Birds offer delicate songs, each note a gentle reminder that the world continues in beauty, even when we choose slowness.
I pad barefoot across the floor, toothbrush in hand, foam and mint and silence. Even the small ritual feels sacred in the stillness. The mirror reflects a softened version of me — sleep-kissed and slow, but awake in the way that matters.
Then, coffee. Steaming and strong, cradled in both hands like a secret. I step out onto the deck, wrapped in a soft sweater, my favorite trench, and breathe.
The forest stretches endlessly before me, pine and birch and whispering green. The morning air is cool but kind, carrying the scent of moss and earth and wildflowers just starting to bloom. A squirrel scurries somewhere unseen. The world feels gentle.
I sip. And watch. There is nothing more to do right now than be part of this — this quiet unfolding, this slow dance of sunlight through trees.
Spring reminds me: life is soft when we let it be.
Waves of love, always.
Ines
