We step out a little earlier than usual today. We often walk along the very line between night and morning, balanced on that tender seam where the world quietly changes hands. But this morning belongs wholly to the darkness—unclaimed, unbroken, unlit by anything except what we bring with us.
December arrives not with a whisper, but with a gentle growl—heavy rains and high winds, unrelenting and unsoftened until evening. The first breath of winter feels mild, but fierce and alive.
We set out just after sunrise, the morning air crisp and sharp with the returning frost. Overnight, the landscape has been brushed by winter’s delicate hand once again. Above, a pale blue sky, uninterrupted by clouds, and the sun a glowing orb suspended low, spilling golden warmth across the frost-bound earth.
The weekend arrives beneath a soft percussion of rain, tapping gently against the windows as though trying to rouse me with its persistent song. The day is damp, heavy, and cold—but it is mine. A single day of stillness carved from a working week, which I refuse to surrender to the weather.
I take my reflections today from our afternoon walk, a welcome shift in tone and mood. Afternoon carries a different kind of quiet, a softer light, a slower rhythm. And on a day like this—cold, damp, grey—the contrast is even more pronounced. The early winter darkness folds itself into the landscape long before its time, and the trail feels deserted, as though it has borrowed the stillness of an early Sunday morning.
This morning unfolds beneath a muted sky, pale and endless, where grey stretches like a soft veil over the world. There is no sharpness, no contrast—just a gentle, uniform hush that seems to press the landscape into stillness. The ground glistens from last night’s rain, each puddle reflecting the low clouds above, creating mirrors of misty silver. I can almost hear the faint drip of water from saturated leaves, a quiet percussion that sets the rhythm of our walk. I sense the rain may return, but for now, the air is cool and thick with moisture, a gentle caress on the skin that makes every breath feel cleansing.
I rise with the dawn, feeling the hush of a Sunday that should be a day of rest—yet for us, it is a summons to wander farther. The world is still draped in the lingering chill of night, even as the sun climbs boldly across the sky, spilling golden light over the horizon. I pull on my boots, slip the leash onto my faithful companion, and step out into the quiet promise of the day.
Saturday arrives with a sense of pause—a rare stillness between chapters. Yesterday marked my final day in a job that has shaped nearly seven years of routine and rhythm. On Monday, I’ll begin anew, stepping into a role with an outdoor clothing company—a fitting path, perhaps, for someone who has always sought meaning and sanctuary in the wilderness, the wind, the rain, and the turn of the earth. But for now, I drift in the gentle stillness between endings and beginnings. For this brief weekend, I belong nowhere in particular. I am unchained and free.