There are mornings that slide over our window panes a little slower.
Light that moves with preoccupation, rather than vigor. Air that is damp with memory—uplifting, yet morose—mixing in lazy harmony. Conflicting sensations that are too quiet to quarrel.
And on these mornings my heart matches the rhythm of the earth. Not sad, not happy. Quiet contentment. I think they call this peace.
She celebrates the grey.
There is only one way to celebrate grey—the color of sadness, of gloom and of storm-bearing clouds. We sit.
On days like this day when the sky seems closer to the earth, we honor the pace that is set before us. We’re not building empires today; instead, we sit on the ground next to the foundation we’ve built and observe the edges of the things we’ve so-humbly created. We breathe in the sky and we smile. We don’t belly-laugh or scream or yell with supreme satisfaction. We let our centers warm the space around us—today, a pale orange ember. We honor the color. We accept that every day is not lit, fiery red, with passion. Some days we need to glow and crackle gently—it’s the ember that sustains us.
It’s the grey that reminds us.
We’re muted. We hum instead of sing. Resting, like the earth. Preparations for the vibrant future resting on our horizon.