Abundance Without Waste

Wednesday, July 22, 2026, sunrise: 5:43, 70°

Bits of bright blue sky lie in the distance, tucked above a static layer of white clouds, farther still beyond low-lying dark clouds. The rains have been rolling in to cover the blue. Swift cycles between dark and light. How quickly I forget the depths of the sky when I’m not watching.

“Absence is harder to track and feel than presence.” —Robert Macfarlane1

Mama deer and her fawns are in the backyard with me. This family of three seems unfazed by my closeness, like they’d be fine with me walking alongside. One kid munches from the ground while kid number two nestles deeper in to his kidney-shaped spot in the grass.

Some days you want to stay tucked in a little longer. It’s hard to wake up when it’s dark out, when your space is unusually dull. I had trouble myself this morning. I begrudgingly pulled each limb from beneath the covers, dragged my legs over the side of the bed, dropped my feet to the floor like lead weights.

Thursday, July 23, 2026, sunrise: 5:44, 53°

I haven’t seen the sun directly today, but I’ve seen the soft pinks and the shades of lavender that stem from the sun.

I’m glad there isn’t any wind; the air is cold enough without it. Cool air feels good sometimes. It helps get me out of my slumber and into an alert state. My complaint right now is that the cool is hitting too soon. We haven’t had enough warm mornings. Can we have a more even spread across the seasons?

I’m past the halfway point of this yearlong project, and I’ve been reflecting on my journey. When I began mid January, I asked myself:

• Have I become complacent in my complaining?

• Have I embraced a negativity bias so long that I’ve lost the ability to find the positives?

• Have I forgotten how to not complain?

• Could stepping outside every day to watch the sunrise help set me on a path toward rediscovering beauty and wonder, toward noticing more good than bad?

I wondered then if soaking in what’s on offer would help me appreciate what’s available rather than wish for things to be different.

I can’t say the adventure has been a cure-all. At least not yet. I continue to have my fair share of internal complaints. (Okay, maybe I don’t keep them inside.) I know the world isn’t all sunshine and roses, but would I want it to be? Wouldn’t I eventually find fault with that too?

What is it they say, “Variety is the spice of life”?

When I reflect over this half a year, I realize my getting up to greet the sun has helped reveal a variety in the world I overlooked before. I’m discovering more of the good and the beauty and the wonder. I’ve grown more curious. My notes and my notations have gotten more defined and descriptive.

These incremental improvements make the journey worthwhile. I hope my notes have sparked some curious explorations for the people around me. I’m interested to see what shifts in perspective come by year’s end.

One important note, I’m looking forward to sleeping in till 6 a.m.! This getting up earlier than that is, quite literally, for the birds. There’s a problem, though, with sleeping till 6 o’clock . . . the silence has slipped away by that time.

Friday, July 24, 2026, sunrise: 5:45, 53°

A few notables:

• Sometimes the deer prance like show horses, knees pulled high, trotting two by two. Skills.

• Vegetable harvests have returned to my morning routine. I’ve simplified my garden space this year, limited the quantities and the varieties. In years past I turned the garden into something like a chore instead of a pleasure. (Shocker, I know!)

• Extra black crows have moved in. One has become a stand-in to the red-winged blackbird who normally chaperones my walk. The crow is a jarring replacement. An unpleasant noise made worse in the early hour.

• The field where I watch the sunrise got mowed down between yesterday morning and today. I knew that would happen; it’s an annual affair. Still, it’s an assault on my senses and on the lives within the ecosystem there. Those lives I’ve watched in the grasses will be searching for new hangouts and homes.

Sunday, July 26, 2026, sunrise: 5:47, 66°

A perfect Sunday sunrise. And two pockets full of snap peas. Abundance without waste.

I know I’ve asked this before, but how can it be that the sunrise surprises me every single day? It seems unlikely that it could, yet here I stand, in this minuscule spot in the universe, watching this magnificent light inch over the horizon, and once again my breath catches and my heart skips a beat.

A black crow caws in fear as he flees from a red-winged blackbird. It’s comical that something so small holds such influence over something so large. That blackbird is relentless in his efforts. The bully is being taken down by the bullied.

Monday, July 27, 2026, sunrise: 5:48, 62°

A few days ago I lamented the leveled field, then today I watched as a family of turkeys moved in to glean the shavings. Perhaps this is merely another in the cycles of the seasons: lodgers temporarily taking up residence, using what they need and leaving the rest for another. An example for us to take what we can use, nothing more. To leave something for the next person. A reminder of community, of being one piece in the whole, of reciprocity.