With the seasons changing, I’m writing this in near-dark early one morning. My screen glows in my face—an otherworldly glow that illuminates my workspace. Out of habit, I unplugged my device right after I woke—we both should be fully charged. I’m awake and rested myself, yet I feel untethered—unsure about my own connection. How do I get there? How do I reach the same level of fully charged for the day ahead?

The Apostle Paul once urged that we be “rooted and grounded in love” (Ephesians 3:17). He mixed his metaphors with purpose—roots sinking deep into soil, foundations fastened to bedrock. Stability. Nourishment. Strength. In another letter he urged believers to remain “stable and steadfast, not shifting from the hope of the gospel” (Colossians 1:23). To be grounded, Paul insists, is not optional.

Jesus said the same in simpler terms: “Abide in me, and I in you… for without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:4–5). Disconnected, we wither. Abiding, we flourish. Made of glass and circuitry, my phone wouldn’t last more than 24 hours on its own. Can I?

I took some family members hiking recently to see if we could locate Native American rock art in the foothills near town. A year earlier I’d dropped a pin in Google Maps after spotting a stray AllTrails post. Sure enough, after a steep ascent, we found it—petroglyphs etched into lichen-covered boulders, quiet evidence of lives that once looked out over the same valley.

But what goes up must come down.

The scree trail we had climbed without much trouble turned tricky on the way back. Loose gravel shifted beneath us. My hiking partners slipped, catching themselves again and again. “Lower your center of gravity,” I urged, crouching slightly, leaning forward over my toes. With that adjustment, our footing changed. We moved with new agility, and made it unscathed to the bottom—hearts racing, minds carrying a fresh lesson.

In June and July, only the earliest risers catch the quietest hour. Pre-dawn. First light. Morning’s earliest names belong to those who trade sleep for stillness. A pink sky rises like a whispered promise—renewal, energy, the courage to start again.

I spent the last week going coastal—waking each morning to the sun rising across the water and otherwise utter silence. No traffic, no phones, no clocks. Just the tide, the horizon, and the slow ignition of color. It reminded me how rare it is to meet the day so unhurried, to see the world before it knows it’s being watched.

Henry David Thoreau once wrote, “An early-morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.” He understood what modern research now confirms: waking early gives the body and mind a head start. Morning light, in particular, is potent medicine. It regulates melatonin, sharpens focus, and even helps us sleep more soundly at night. Just a short walk in that first hour leaves fingerprints across the rest of the day—energy steadier, stress easier to manage.

When my family was younger, we’d load up the boat and head for the lake, repeating the old line that “the early bird gets the worm.” What we were really after was smooth, flat water—glass, we called it. For the first hour, often longer, the lake was ours alone. By noon, the surface would ripple with the wakes of others, but those golden mornings were worth the struggle between sleeping in and rising early. Both had their payoff, but only one gave us glass. Summer rewarded those who traded sleep for first light.

Scientists give morning three names: astronomical, nautical, and civil twilight.

This year, my area went ninety-six days without measurable precipitation. By now, we’d typically have around five inches. Instead, trails turned dusty, poufs of grit rising with each step, working into shoes and socks, coating shins and calves. Grass withered to straw, the foothills crisped, riverbeds shrank to stone. Wildfires broke out and ran unrestrained, some too close to home. Reservoirs shrank at more than five times the usual rate. The land gasped, and so did we.

And then—an ordinary afternoon turned extraordinary. The sky grayed, then darkened, until the first drops began to fall. They carried a peculiar smell that nearly stole my breath. Acrid, almost a taste on the tongue, gone as quickly as it came. Scientists call it petrichor—oils long stored in soil and plants released at the touch of rain. After a long, dry season, that release felt like sacrament.

Step from sunlight into shade on a summer day, and your body knows the difference before your mind can name it. The air cools. Colors mute. Edges soften. You breathe more deeply.

Shade feels so cool—but how much cooler is it, really? On a hot, dry day, it can be 15 to 25 degrees cooler in the shade. That’s not opinion. That’s thermodynamics. Sunlit surfaces can climb past 140°F, while just feet away, shaded ground hovers closer to 90. Your skin registers the change immediately. Step into shade, and the heat stops radiating from every direction. Relief arrives in seconds.

But the thing about shade is this: it’s not the absence of light. It’s the byproduct of it. You don’t get shade without something standing in the way. In this case, light makes darkness.

And not all darkness is the same.