At The Edge of Morning

At the Edge of Morning

This morning, before the world fully woke up, we stood at the shoreline and watched the sun rise.

There was snow still clinging to the ground, the water holding its breath, and that soft, golden hush that only exists for a few minutes each day. The kind of silence that feels alive. The kind that reminds you the Earth is always speaking…most of us just move too fast to hear her.

Lately, my kid has been on a photography kick. Drawn to sunrises. Drawn to light. Drawn to the way the sky opens itself slowly, layer by layer, as if revealing a secret meant only for those who arrive early enough to witness it.

They’re learning how to see, not just how to take a photo.

They pause. They adjust. They wait.

They notice how the grasses bend, how the reflection stretches across the water, how the color shifts from amber to gold to something almost otherworldly.

And watching them do this sets my heart ablaze.

As an artist. As a mother. As a woman who has always known that creativity is a form of devotion.

There is something deeply magickal about witnessing your child fall in love with the world. About seeing them nurture their creativity not through screens or noise, but through presence. Through observation. Through reverence.

Nature doesn’t demand perfection.
She invites relationship.

She teaches us to slow down. To notice patterns. To honor cycles. To understand that beauty is never rushed, and never repeated in exactly the same way twice.

Each sunrise is a spell cast once and then it’s gone. 

This is why I believe nature calls to our souls the way she does. Not loudly. Not urgently. But persistently. Like a whisper you feel in your bones before you ever understand it with your mind.

This morning wasn’t just about photographs. It was about creation. It was about presence. It was about bearing witness to literal magick.  

Remembering that wonder is still available to us. That awe is still free. That the Earth is still offering herself, moment after moment, even when we forget to look.

So consider this a gentle invitation.

Today, step outside.
Find a place to sit…by water, by trees, by sky.
Be quiet.
Be still.
Notice what you usually pass by without seeing.

The way light moves.
The way air feels on your skin.
The way life continues, patiently, beautifully, whether or not we are paying attention.

And if you’re lucky enough to witness someone you love learning how to see the world with fresh eyes…pause long enough to let that moment mark you. 

Because that, too, is magick.

With Love and Magick 🌙
Christine