Sunday Morning Silence

This morning I slipped out the door before the sun had crested the mountain. The sky was still heavy with cloud, holding back the forecasted rain, and the streets were hushed. In the span of my walk, I saw only one other person—a man climbing into his truck—before the world settled back into its quiet rhythm.

Yesterday I’d broken from my treadmill routine and ran five miles outdoors. Today I decided to step outside again, but this time I left behind my headphones and my podcasts. No recorded voices, no playlists. Just me, my breath, and the world as it woke.

It was a feast for the senses.

The shape of the clouds stretched like brushstrokes across the sky, their edges tinged pink by the rising sun. Flowers along the path still held their bold colors in the dim morning light, a reminder that beauty does not wait for permission to bloom. A few cool sprinkles of rain kissed my arms. The wind brushed past, both gentle and insistent, as though reminding me to keep moving.

And then there were the sounds—the layered soundtrack of a Sunday morning. The steady rhythm of my own footsteps. The rise and fall of my breath (have you ever truly listened to yourself breathing?). Chickens and roosters in the neighborhood breaking into their dawn chorus. Leaves rustling, branches creaking, the earth slowly and deliberately coming alive.

It struck me that there’s a different kind of awe to be found in these ordinary moments, when you step outside the constant chatter and just notice. No commentary. No agenda. Just presence.

I found myself thinking: What if I made this a ritual? A simple Sunday morning walk in the quiet, to remember what it feels like to really listen—to the world, to my body, to my own thoughts as they drift in and out like passing clouds.

I think I will.