"A Summer Morning" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"There is a kind of happiness and wonder that makes you serious. It is too good to waste on jokes."
~C.S. Lewis
The first mug of Gevalia coffee is warming my hands as another summer morning quietly unfolds around the wee cottage in the woods. Classical music drifts softly through these humble rooms, never demanding attention, only gently accompanying the beginning of another day. Outside my window, the world is already wrapped in the kind of warmth that tells you this will not be an ordinary June day.
The thermometer has barely cleared dawn, yet it already rests in the seventies. The air is heavy with humidity, and the sunlight pours through it like liquid gold. It does not simply illuminate the trees—it seems to breathe among them. Every beam of light becomes visible, suspended in the moist morning air, turning the familiar landscape into something almost enchanted.
On mornings like this, the earth seems to exhale.
There is a temptation to complain about the heat before the day has even begun. We know what awaits us: temperatures climbing, dangerous heat indexes, and afternoon thunderstorms gathering beyond the western horizon. Yet nature offers another way of seeing.
The humidity softens the edges of the world. Time itself seems to move more slowly, like honey flowing from a jar. The great oaks cast wide islands of shade across the lawn, and beneath their branches everything becomes quieter. Even the birds, so exuberant at sunrise, gradually retreat into the cool green cathedral of leaves. It is as though all creation silently agrees that some days are not meant for rushing.
Perhaps there is wisdom in that.
The Italians have a lovely phrase--il dolce far niente—"the sweetness of doing nothing." It is not laziness. It is the quiet recognition that our worth is not measured by how much we accomplish before noon. Some of life's richest moments arrive when we simply sit beneath a tree with a good book, listen to the breeze stirring the pines, sip a cold glass of tea—or a second mug of coffee while the morning is still young—and allow ourselves to belong completely to the moment.
The world constantly urges us to hurry.
Summer quietly teaches us to linger.
As the day deepens, the atmosphere will grow heavier still. The scent of pine, damp earth, and warm grass will rise into the air. Leaves will rustle like silk whenever the faintest breeze finds them. Somewhere in the distance, thunder will begin rehearsing its afternoon symphony. Then, almost without warning, the sky will open, rain will wash the dust from every leaf, and the whole world will breathe again.
Isn't life much the same?
There are seasons when our hearts feel heavy with responsibility, uncertainty, or grief. We long for relief while forgetting that even nature does not remain beneath the weight forever. Every humid afternoon eventually welcomes a cooling wind. Every gathering storm eventually spends itself. Every dark cloud carries within it the promise of fresh air waiting on the other side.
Perhaps that is one of summer's quietest lessons.
Do not fear the heaviness. It is often preparing the release.
So this morning, as golden light filters through the trees and the day slowly awakens, I find myself grateful—not despite the heat, but because it reminds me to slow my hurried spirit. To notice the patterns of light beneath the oaks. To hear the hush between the songs of the birds. To savor the aroma rising from my coffee. To let classical music mingle with the sounds of the waking woods.
Today does not ask us to conquer the world.
It simply asks us to be fully present within it.
May we remember that this morning, this day, and all our days. For sometimes the greatest gift we can offer ourselves is not another hurried accomplishment, but the quiet courage to sit in the shade, lift our faces toward the light, and discover once again the extraordinary sweetness hidden within an ordinary summer day.
~Wylddane
~C.S. Lewis
The first mug of Gevalia coffee is warming my hands as another summer morning quietly unfolds around the wee cottage in the woods. Classical music drifts softly through these humble rooms, never demanding attention, only gently accompanying the beginning of another day. Outside my window, the world is already wrapped in the kind of warmth that tells you this will not be an ordinary June day.
The thermometer has barely cleared dawn, yet it already rests in the seventies. The air is heavy with humidity, and the sunlight pours through it like liquid gold. It does not simply illuminate the trees—it seems to breathe among them. Every beam of light becomes visible, suspended in the moist morning air, turning the familiar landscape into something almost enchanted.
On mornings like this, the earth seems to exhale.
There is a temptation to complain about the heat before the day has even begun. We know what awaits us: temperatures climbing, dangerous heat indexes, and afternoon thunderstorms gathering beyond the western horizon. Yet nature offers another way of seeing.
The humidity softens the edges of the world. Time itself seems to move more slowly, like honey flowing from a jar. The great oaks cast wide islands of shade across the lawn, and beneath their branches everything becomes quieter. Even the birds, so exuberant at sunrise, gradually retreat into the cool green cathedral of leaves. It is as though all creation silently agrees that some days are not meant for rushing.
Perhaps there is wisdom in that.
The Italians have a lovely phrase--il dolce far niente—"the sweetness of doing nothing." It is not laziness. It is the quiet recognition that our worth is not measured by how much we accomplish before noon. Some of life's richest moments arrive when we simply sit beneath a tree with a good book, listen to the breeze stirring the pines, sip a cold glass of tea—or a second mug of coffee while the morning is still young—and allow ourselves to belong completely to the moment.
The world constantly urges us to hurry.
Summer quietly teaches us to linger.
As the day deepens, the atmosphere will grow heavier still. The scent of pine, damp earth, and warm grass will rise into the air. Leaves will rustle like silk whenever the faintest breeze finds them. Somewhere in the distance, thunder will begin rehearsing its afternoon symphony. Then, almost without warning, the sky will open, rain will wash the dust from every leaf, and the whole world will breathe again.
Isn't life much the same?
There are seasons when our hearts feel heavy with responsibility, uncertainty, or grief. We long for relief while forgetting that even nature does not remain beneath the weight forever. Every humid afternoon eventually welcomes a cooling wind. Every gathering storm eventually spends itself. Every dark cloud carries within it the promise of fresh air waiting on the other side.
Perhaps that is one of summer's quietest lessons.
Do not fear the heaviness. It is often preparing the release.
So this morning, as golden light filters through the trees and the day slowly awakens, I find myself grateful—not despite the heat, but because it reminds me to slow my hurried spirit. To notice the patterns of light beneath the oaks. To hear the hush between the songs of the birds. To savor the aroma rising from my coffee. To let classical music mingle with the sounds of the waking woods.
Today does not ask us to conquer the world.
It simply asks us to be fully present within it.
May we remember that this morning, this day, and all our days. For sometimes the greatest gift we can offer ourselves is not another hurried accomplishment, but the quiet courage to sit in the shade, lift our faces toward the light, and discover once again the extraordinary sweetness hidden within an ordinary summer day.
~Wylddane
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