When the Morning Arrives Softly

Notes From the Hollow Bone | Entry Thirty-six

There is a version of me that only lives in the early light —
before the coffee,
before the world begins its movement,
before my mind remembers there are lists and clocks.

She is quiet.
She is honest.
She is unarmored.

And in that stillness, I remember —
nothing is demanding me anymore.
Not in the way it used to.

Because I no longer bow to urgency.
I no longer chase what is already meant for me.
And peace — I’m learning — doesn’t run.
It settles.
It waits.
It arrives gently and expects nothing in return.

Sometimes I think God speaks loudest in the softest places —
a pale sky,
a slow morning,
the way the day opens like water rippling from a pebble’s touch.

And what I hear isn’t instruction.
It isn’t direction.
It isn’t even a whisper.

It is simply this:

Be still with yourself.
Be patient with your becoming.
Everything is flowing as it should.

So I sit here — not chasing light,
not reaching for the next version of me,
not proving, fixing, or performing.

Just being.

And I’m finding that simply being here 

— with Him 

— is enough.

With Grace & Ink,
— Mai