These Mornings of Mine

Two years ago, I wrote a piece titled Rich without possession. I wrote about standing by the water before dawn, about the quiet weight of the world in those fleeting moments before the light breaks through.

Two years later, I found myself writing something strikingly similar—this time in lockdown, in quarantine, in the midst of a world that had changed in ways none of us could have foreseen.

At first, I hesitated to share it. I thought, It’s too similar. I’ve written this before. But then I realised—two years have passed, and here I am, still standing by this same shore. A little wiser, with more stories tucked into my sleeve, a little more grown. But still rising early, still waiting for the sun, still pausing to reflect. Still with Ziva by my side, leaping into the waves as if no time has passed at all.

And the words remain true. What brings me peace—what has always brought me peace—is the sea. It will never become tired or mundane to acknowledge the miracle of those quiet, breath-held moments before the sun rises. To send love out into the world. To breathe it in. To simply be.

So while this is a familiar reflection, an echo of a thought I have had before, I welcome it. I accept that I will likely write about it again and again, for all the days of my life. And it will always feel just as sacred as the first time.

My favourite time of day is before the sun rises.

In those moments, I imagine the entire world—the lives unfolding in tandem with my own. I picture love being breathed into every being. Some are still asleep, some are just waking. Some are ending their days. Babies are being born. Souls are departing. Someone is whispering I love you for the first time.

The world is so vast, and sometimes its enormity makes me feel small, almost inconsequential. But in moments of solitude, I remind myself of these things—and I no longer feel alone.

I take a slow inhale. The sky is still dark, and for a brief moment, I wonder if Ziva and I are the only two souls on the planet. I watch as she swims toward the horizon, the shoreline stretching endlessly, undisturbed—kilometres of sand and forest framing the silence.

I slow my thoughts. I watch them dissolve, carried away by the tide. Across the bay, the lighthouse blinks. I count the seconds between flashes. Each turn feels like an eternity.

And then—those first rays of light. The sky glows before the crescent appears on the horizon. The sun arrives gently, not in a hurry. The planets spin. The cosmos waltzes.

I exhale. I imagine the shuffling of feet, whispered kisses, the first kettles whistling. The quiet hum of life beginning again. Another day of firsts and lasts, of everything in between.

A song I once heard sang, this beautiful thing happens every day, it’s called the sun, it’s called my blood.

I close my eyes and see a kaleidoscope of fire dancing behind my lids.

And I realise—I am neither alone nor lonely.

I am here. I am alive. And these mornings are miracles.

7:06 AM. Sunrise. Growing later by the day. Autumn is settling in.

The afternoon stretches on, and tonight, I will fall asleep already dreaming of tomorrow’s first light.

Later, I won’t see the sun set, but I will watch the sky dim. I will inhale, thinking of someone standing on another shore, in another time zone, waiting for their first light. They will wonder, just as I did, if they are the only one awake.

They will exhale.

They will be nearly born again, bathed in morning light—just as I surrender to the stars.

I wonder what their sunrise was like. And that is the secret: it is never the same. Like the clouds, like the tide. You just never know.

And that—that is the magic of it all.