Mornings begin slowly and intentionally. A warm cup of tea, shearling clogs, and the cool hush of the garden before the world fully stirs.
I water seedlings, tidy the beds, and deadhead early bloomers. The chickens wander freely, bobbing between rows of tulips, scratching at the soil and clucking softly. There’s something grounding about this time of day — hands in the earth, surrounded by colour, stillness, and birdsong.
It’s not a task, but a ritual — one that starts the day not with urgency, but presence.