It's a slow, quiet, rainy morning.
I'm drinking coffee on the front porch, breathing in the fresh, cool air, watching raindrops make tiny circles on the slightly-flooded street and on my dad's blue pick-up. I can feel the rain when the wind blows, a fine spray on my skin.
And despite the sound of rain, it feels so quiet. Calm. Peaceful. As if the continuous rhythm drowns out all other noise—external and internal. As if it stills the mind, lulls the heart's worries, and wraps the body with a warm, soft blanket. A serenade.
The whole experience is hypnotizing. It reels you in and invites the mind to wander, jumping from one idea to another, making connections, peeling layers, and bringing hidden thoughts to surface.
And all the while, I'm sipping great coffee (two cups so far), meticulously prepared by my dad, as he always does multiple times a day. Not too strong, not too light. Flavors in perfect harmony.
It's a morning of complete stillness. Of comforting, refreshing quiet. Of appreciating the small, sweet, seemingly-mundane moments.