we're home from iceland, and i think i love best the dark mornings that chase travel. something about my internal clock being fidgeted with heightens rituals already so dear to me. you could call them routines, but i like looking to the smallest moments of our days with reverence. the rising from a warm bed. the tiptoe hunt for wooly slippers. the boiling of water. the lighting of candles. the pouring of cold milk. the pressing of coffee. the spinning of soft music. eyes toward the sky, laid on foggy windows and a tree aflame, really noticing what it looks like as dawn spreads her fingers over the city.
these are the breaths that make up our days that make up our lives. the grand moments come, they do, but mostly once in a while. it's when we treat the mundane, everyday blinks of our eyes as worthy -- of time, of attention, of elevation, of pausing for -- that life feels really, really beautiful.