Present Over Perfect

I’m also learning to leave sort of a sacred margin at the
beginning and end of the day, to go to bed earlier and wake
up earlier, letting the transitions between sleeping and
waking and the reverse be a little gentler. Like so many
things, I’m bringing the lake way of living into the rest of
the year.
At home, I never think to begin and end my days
outside, but at the lake, it seems so natural to walk straight
out to the porch with my coffee in hand, and also so fitting
to end the day there, watching the blue sky fade to pink,
watching the last beachgoers straggle back to their cars,
pulling wagons and pushing strollers, wet towels around
their necks, feet sandy and hair messy.
It feels fitting to spend the opening and closing margins
of the day on the porch, which is essentially the perfect in-
between space—not inside, not fully outside. Not privately
tucked inside the home, but not on a city street, entirely
public.
When I begin the day in quiet on the porch, it connects
me to God through prayer, and it connects me to God
through his creation. There’s something wonderful and
healthy and healing about being outside, something my own
life is crying out for. Being outside reminds me of life and
God and growth, and the energy and motion of nature, all
things I forget so easily when I spend my life too much
indoors, too much in a world of laptops and laundry and
lists.
I don’t rush outside every single morning, tearing down