Morning Pause #200 – Oil on Wood Panel 6×6”
February 2026
Alice wandered up the road, breath clouding the cool dawn air. She paused above Staunton Farm as autumn trees smoldered in russet and gold. The sky broke open, a soft blaze of light threading through the clouds, and for a moment, the world held still, as if morning was made for her.
There was a time—not so long ago—when mornings began with quiet footsteps instead of to-do lists.
A couple of years ago, Bruce and I made a habit of slipping out before breakfast, walking around our neighborhood as the world slowly woke. The air had that cool, gentle hush to it, and the sky would stretch open in soft layers of light. On this particular morning, we paused overlooking a neighborhood farm—autumn trees were glowing in rust and ember tones beneath a sky just beginning to catch fire.
It was the kind of moment that doesn’t ask for anything. No rushing. No noise. Just presence.
That morning stayed with me long after the season passed, and eventually, it found its way into paint. The brush followed memory—thick clouds, a golden break of light, trees holding onto the last warmth of fall, and that deep green earth below it all, steady and grounding.
Lately, life has been…full. Studio work, client work, tax season rhythms—it all stacks up quickly. And somewhere along the way, those quiet morning walks slipped out of our routine.
But spring has a way of calling you back.
As the ground softens and the crocuses begin their brave little push upward, I’ve been thinking about those walks again. About starting the day not with urgency, but with intention. About letting the light find us instead of racing ahead of it.
I even have a new pair of boots waiting by the door—ready to slosh through the mud, to wander the edges of fields, to reclaim those small, sacred pockets of time.
That’s the goal this season: to return to simple rituals. To step outside before the world gets loud. To pause again where morning meets the land—and remember how to stand still in it.
Because sometimes, the most important work we do isn’t in the studio or at the desk.
It’s just witnessing nature