There are seasons that the calendar doesn’t mark.
They arrive without warning, like the three o’clock rain,
and they change the color of your days.
Today I live in the season of the warm mug.
I wake up, put my feet on the cold floor,
and I look for the ritual: water, yerba, silence.
It’s not laziness. It’s resistance.
It’s telling the world “wait” before running out.
Daily life is that.
A collection of tiny scraps we gather without realizing:
the shade of a tree you choose to walk under even if it takes longer,
the song that gets stuck in your head because your dad listened to it as a kid,
the neighbor’s “how are you” that isn’t just out of obligation.
We spend years training for the big moments.
For the trip, the promotion, the applause.
But we forget to rehearse for Tuesdays.
For washing dishes while looking out the window.
For waiting for the bus while the wind messes up your thoughts.
And yet, everything is there.
Beauty doesn’t live at the destination.
It lives in the pause between one task and the next.
In the exact second before the water boils.
In the 6pm light that paints gold even the most worn-out corner of your room.
Maybe growing up is this:
stop asking every day for fireworks,
and learn to smell the quiet smoke of a candle.
What season are you in today?
The rush, the mate, the window-gazing?
Mate at dawn: For the verse "the season of the warm cup." Warm light, steam, ritual. A great, intimate photo.
Window with raindrops: For "the rain at three in the afternoon" and "looking out the window." It conveys pause and reflection.
Light at 6 p.m.: For "the light that paints the most worn things gold." That late-afternoon gold lends itself to poetry.
