The first light hasn’t quite decided whether to stay. Kookaburras are trading jokes in the gum trees and I’m nursing a mug that’s more steam than tea. In this hush, the world remembers how to breathe.
I think of all the mornings we check our phones before we check in with ourselves. Today, try reversing the order. Greet your pulse. Notice the weight of your feet on the floor. Hear the fridge hum like a lazy didgeridoo. These small acknowledgements say: ‘I’m here, I matter, and I don’t need an app to prove it.’
Take one deliberate sip. Let it be a tiny act of rebellion against hurry culture. The day will demand its pound of flesh soon enough—emails, bills, the neighbour’s leaf blower set to “typhoon”. This minute is yours. Guard it like a secret garden.
If this reflection nudged a smile, pass it on to someone who could use a quieter morning. And if you’d like more whispered moments, you know where to find me.
