The light takes its time in the mornings. I sleep in longer, and there’s a prayer already spilling from my lips. I never get to Amen on my first try, but I never stop reaching for my God. My body’s awake, yet my mind still wrenches itself from the land of sleep. It is here, in these little moments, that I turn, look at the ceiling, and think about my life, my day, and how I will live it. When my feet finally touch the carpet, I am already thinking about emails, my students, food, money, friends I need to call, what I’ll wear to teach, and how soundly my husband sleeps. I want to slow it all down, the thinking, the planning, the here-we-go-again refrain, the countdown to the next big thing, the dragging of my feet through this wild momentum of being. The numbness that dangerously creeps into the routine of living. I want quieter ways of embracing newness. A peaceful and gentle spirit at the break of dawn. Almost as if I surrender to the past the heaviness of living, and never look back. Yes, this day may come with its suffering, but just for a moment, in its first breath, I can sit wondrously in the freshness and not seek all the terrible things.

Outside, although I almost forget to do so, I lift my head to see the trees. How some leaves are already turning russet and yellow, how the branches let go as if knowing it’s time, and how the sidewalks collect the fallen treasures. A winding path of tree archives. The sky is sharply and perfectly blue against the palette of fading leaves. Even in this, I behold my God. Such wondrous creation, and I like to think, its existence is just for me to witness, to delight in. It is silly, of course, to place myself at the center of the world in that way, to think the bright yellow of a sunflower is just for my eyes to see, for my heart to be stirred by it. But aren’t we all at the center of someone else’s world? Do we not take our time, stretch our hands to create and weave and imagine just for the sheer pleasure of another’s witnessing? In one glance, I take my surroundings in. The quietness of Athens, the highs and lows of Athens, the winds and rain and squirrels running down a lane. I take it all in, with awe and joy.

But there is still something that’ll strike me down this day. What I want to say is that there a crack in one of my rooms. I speak and my word is sucked into that place. You have a room full of people and you say hello. Silence. You know the word has left your mouth the same way you know you’ve offered a piece of yourself. You do not beat yourself. You do not punch your fist through the silence. But you notice it. You name it. You wonder if you should be the kind of person who swallows their hello, and keeps it tucked deep inside of you. At night, you tell your husband about it. It doesn’t matter, you say. People are distracted and absent-minded and indifferent. People do not always register another presence. You think how sad, that we’re so preoccupied that we lose sight of another life. Of someone walking into a room. Of someone offering something of themselves. Of someone saying, “hello, good morning” which is also I see you, which is also hi, here I am. Here we both are, together, in this place. How miraculous this brief encounter. What would it teach us? What do we have to give today? All the little ways we announce ourselves to the world, all the ways we touch and hold each other without lifting a hand. And yes, how, with our silence, we reveal what has our attention, what is worth our time, and what we don’t care to acknowledge.

 I do not want this to change me. I will enter into its quiet wilderness, but I will not let it change me. If there is any shifting in me, may it be the grounding of patience, may it be the rising of quiet strength, and gratitude too, for all that sings back to me.

Love is the art of paying attention, of knowing. On my screen, I read ‘sunrise’ as surprise. Surprise. I sit with my little accident and laugh at myself for my misreading of language. But there’s something lovely about it, too—the rising of the sun, its intrusion of light, how it spills over my window in the early hours, how, despite its predictability, it manages to seize me, leave me amazed by the strips of light that cast on my bed from my blinds. A quiet hello, a morning song. I am here, and so are you.

When the day is over, and I haven’t checked off everything I set off to do, I leave it all behind. I clear my desk, lock my door, and begin my short walk home. On my walk is where I think about my day, the words that rolled off my tongue, the people I served, the stories I read, and the presence of God in the mundane. I am tired. I will do it all over again tomorrow. My husband is at the door, waiting. Wherever he is, there I am—fearlessly bare, at ease, and allowing myself a softness I keep from the world. I hold him much longer than he’s used to. I do not let go. He will always have my hellos, my good mornings and nights. He will always hear the song of my beating heart. Now, there is a whole lot I do not know and cannot speak on, but of all the things I’m certain of, I know that my love will see me when I walk through the door, and he will hold my presence like the tender gift that it is. Here and always, I will forever be held and known where it matters the most.