Sunday Morning

Up with the chickens on a whopping 23-degree morning.

The kind of cold that makes the hills hold their breath a little longer.

The house is quiet.

No hum of the day yet—just the gentle creak of floors, the soft glow of early light, and that stillness you only get before the world remembers it’s supposed to be loud.

Cocoa warms my hands. Thoughts wander.

This is the space where stories begin—before the rush, before the noise, before the list of things that need done. Just me, the cold morning air pressing against the windows, and the quiet knowing that something good always comes from these slow starts.

Sunday mornings feel like a promise.

A pause. A breath.

And a reminder that even in the cold, there’s comfort to be found if you’re up early enough to notice it. 🖤🍂