September Mornings

The mornings arrive earlier now, or perhaps it’s that I rise to meet them differently. September in the South carries a particular weight—summer’s heat still clings to the afternoons, but the mornings hint at change.

I’ve been thinking about beginnings lately. Not the dramatic kind we mark on calendars, but the quiet shifts that happen when we’re not quite paying attention. The way a story finds its shape not in the first sentence but somewhere in the middle of the third paragraph. The way home becomes home not when you move in, but when you stop noticing the unfamiliar corners.

This morning, coffee in hand, I watched the fog lift from the valley. There’s a metaphor there, probably several, but sometimes it’s enough just to witness. To be present for the daily revelation of a familiar landscape.

The book continues to find its readers, and I continue to find new meanings in words I thought I knew by heart. That’s the thing about putting your work into the world—it becomes a conversation, not a declaration.

More tomorrow, as always.