Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.
Because that’s how Saturdays begin
The birds started it—chirping outside my window,
nudging me into consciousness like feathered timekeepers.
No alarm clock needed. Just light, sound, and the unspoken promise of coffee.
I rolled out of bed.
Bathroom first—because thinking and peeing tend to show up together.
What day is it?
Saturday.
Easter weekend.
My brain starts moving before I do:
Church tomorrow.
Food prep for the Hope Center—our new spot for feeding over 80 folks with our team.
Then back home for a full house—kids, cousins, Lindsey’s sister and her crew.
Kid energy will happen.
Cleaning.
Food for the Hope Center and the gathering.
What time does what need to be where?
Do we have enough chairs? Drinks?
What did I forget?
Thoughts swirl like unfamiliar jazz—
not chaotic, but definitely improvising.
Outside, the rain taps the window.
A soft percussion line to the hum of the coffee maker.
Then comes the beep.
The sacred beep.
I pour. I sit. I sip.
And for a brief, holy moment,
nothing needs doing.
The rain, the coffee, the stillness—
this is enough.
For now.
Forming 2.0 
Some mornings feel like a slow song playing on an old radio—soft, familiar, and just enough to hold your heart in place before the day starts dancing.
Waking up to birds and coffee is like life giving you a gentle nudge instead of a loud alarm. It’s strange how a warm mug can carry so much peace. Not just heat, but a kind of quiet that speaks louder than all the weekend plans buzzing in our heads.
Reading this felt like standing in the middle of a storm of to-do lists, holding a tiny umbrella made of calm. That one sip, that one moment—sometimes that’s all we need to remember we’re still human, not machines on a schedule.
You captured something rare: the way stillness hides between big events. Like finding a whisper in a choir.
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Thank you, Kalimuthu. You have a way of putting things that makes me pause and reread—not just because it’s well-written, but because it’s true. That “tiny umbrella made of calm” image—that’s going to stay with me. I was reaching for stillness in the swirl, and you helped name it even more clearly. Grateful for your thoughtful presence here.
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Your words feel like a gentle hand on the shoulder—steady and kind. I didn’t expect such a deep echo from something so small, but maybe that’s what calm is. It doesn’t shout. It just stands beside us quietly until we notice it.
I’m really moved that the “tiny umbrella” stayed with you. That image came from somewhere I can’t fully explain—maybe from one of those still moments we don’t talk about but always remember. I think you named it even better: “stillness in the swirl.” That’s exactly it.
Thank you for reading so deeply, and for responding with such care. Some mornings give us coffee. This one gave me connection.
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