Hello, Friends!

This morning, I wrapped an oversized fleece plaid blanket around my shoulders just as the morning light was taking hold. I was in my favorite chair on my screen porch, looking out to our backyard. 

That’s when I saw him: a coyote, walking slowly through my backyard! He stopped for long pauses to sniff the air and look around. He didn't seem to notice me. He was in no hurry. He looked to be out on a Lazy Sunday stroll.

This was a fantastic start to my day. Seeing that gorgeous coyote, in the suburbs where I didn’t expect to see him, made me feel as though I’d witnessed something special; something that wasn’t meant for me.

It felt even more special because I’m a reluctant waker-upper. Today for some reason, my eyes popped open at a strangely early hour, so I grabbed my notebook and pen and tiptoed to the porch.

The only reason I was out there so early was because of an idea I read about recently, by one of my favorite newsletter writers, Ann Handley. Her fortnightly newsletter is called Total Annarchy. Ann has a daily writing habit she’s developed called "15 Minutes of Sunday." I was so taken by the idea that I went out that day and bought myself a composition notebook to start my own 15 Minutes of Sunday habit. (This habit is for all days of the week, but encapsulates the “Easy Like Sunday Morning” feeling.)

As I wrote my pages, I paused between sentences, becoming more and more aware of the early morning symphony that I usually miss: the October breeze passing through the cottonwoods: a waxy, papery rustle of huge restless trees that seem to wonder what it might feel like to no longer be anchored down by their roots. My wind chimes trilled from time to time, too, and behind those sounds hummed the constant rushing of traffic from the nearby highway. Even a distant train whistle sighed.

“15 Minutes of Sunday” is turning me into an intentional noticer. I’m cataloging the things I see each day, knowing I’ll be writing them down later. Each day is a new opportunity to capture little treasures amongst the ordinary. It keeps my eyes wide; my ears open.

The more I look, the more lovely the world becomes. But can pain, embarrassment, hurt, and disappointment in life be beautiful, too? 

That’s an idea that's a bit harder to embrace. I’m trying—trying—to accept that even the brokenness of life might be a bittersweet kind of lovely, too. 

I’ll keep working on that.

xoxo,