Not every day, not every week, but enough mornings to know that rising early, before dawn, grounds me in the new day.
Golden light on the emerald leaves of the laurel willow and last standing mayday.
Birds singing for a new day – less now but in spring and early summer, the only sound that fills the still starry sky.
Bob’s quiet voice, spoken word and song selections echo The Road Home.
Morning breeze gently kissing awake the backyard trees, inviting them into the new day dance.
Sister Moon’s sliver of shine gives way to the light of her Brother Sun.
Still mind metta meditation for friends and family challenged by illness and travails.
Full hearted prayer of thanksgiving for this Life, my Life, this new day.