My eyes open. The darkness of the back of my eyelids transitions to the grayness of the room around me. Dawn is approaching, and in anticipation for its promises for the day, I briefly stretch yesterday’s anxieties and tension away. In the dimly-lit kitchen, I pour a tall and cool, not cold, glass of water, and I begin making coffee. It brews as I finish the water. I throw cold, not cool, water on my face. The blacks and dark blues in the sky begin their transition. Lighter grays and hints of orange begin to creep through the windows and cracked terrace door. Steam whistels. I take a fresh clay from the cubbard and place it on the deep green tile countertop, filling it to satisfaction. For the first time, I step out onto the terrace, into the real world, and watch the sun crest over the inky sea. It fills the openness around me with vibrance, light, and color. Oranges and yellows, deep reds.

It’s cool this morning. The breeze coming inward from the water is bracing. I am a kid again as I take my first sip of coffee. I awaken to the world around me, responding kindly to God’s display of morning. I hear the clear and true promise that what I have been given today is just that—a gift. In that moment, I choose not to waste it, but to use it for good. I sit in the cheap, metal wire terrace chair among the trees and plants. I write, or draw, or meditate. Or maybe just sit and appreciate the display of life around me. Life starts anew. And I am thankful.