My sports bra sits in my lap.

I sit in one of my great-grandmother’s chairs around our old wooden table and think about whether I should make coffee first or just hit the road.

I am still wiping the sleep from my eyes, and my hair is flat and puffy in all the wrong places.

It took me forty-five minutes to get out of bed this morning, resetting alarms so Michael wouldn’t be woken again and again by the snooze. The bed was so perfectly summer cozy, the down comforter and sheet feeling just-right weight, and fresh air coursing through the room, pushed in and out by the fan.

So hard to move.

The girls still sleep, and the house is quiet, so part of me wants to stay and breathe silence here. But the morning light outside is glorious, and it rims the shiny leaves with promise, and it’s calling me.

I am searching for words these last days to describe what is, to express life when so much is same. Same but unfolding in its own way with surprise here and new there.

I think I might know the form of this day, but I don’t unfold it on my own.

There are these little people who have their own ways and this coffee that tastes different morning to morning, and on my walk, always the bikers, but first today one in a cute skirt and heeled shoes and I wonder how she bikes in them, and then a lean man in his florescent cycling clothes. Tomorrow, the other way around.

This day is folded up like a fresh sheet ready for pulling across the corners of the bed, and we don’t know how it will shake out and exactly where the wrinkles will be.

Or the blessings.

We just know that day will unfold with its own unique everydayness. With its coffee, its shoes, its bicycles, its people, its Light, touching down on imperfect hair.

What everyday blessings are you seeing this morning?

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