I pause. I hear myself breathe. The sound steadies me.

I write before bed, the way some people pray — not to ask, but to return. The lamp glows softly over the desk, its light holding the edges of the moment. My pen moves — a ballpoint tonight, smooth and sure — rolling easily over the paper, letting me feel every shift in texture beneath it. The ink whispers across the page, a quiet companion to the rhythm of my breath.

I pause. I hear myself breathe. The sound steadies me. The night thickens around the small circle of light. This is the ritual — the simple act that gathers the day and sets it down.

I could type, but I don’t. The screen distracts; it asks for performance. The pen keeps me present. Every line carries emotion in its weight — pressure, angle, rhythm. The body speaks through it. The hand trembles when the mind wanders. The shoulders ease when the words finally settle. Writing by hand is mindfulness made visible.

I write:

“Today feels ordinary, but I’m starting to understand what ordinary means.”

The sentence pulls me backward, to morning. The soft click of the drip coffee maker. The smell blooming before the sound fades — that slow, unfolding aroma that fills the kitchen with something like promise. I stand by the counter, waiting, watching the dark stream fall and gather, feeling anticipation rise with the scent.

While the coffee brews, I open my notebook — my morning pages — and uncap the same ballpoint pen. The tip rolls forward, catching the paper’s grain like tires on an open road. Writing in the morning feels like driving a race car — fast, sharp, instinctive. Thoughts corner tightly, speed straightens out in long stretches of clarity. I chase whatever comes. What did I dream? Why am I thinking of that old song again? The pen rolls faster, following the current, never quite knowing where it’s headed.

Halfway through, something shifts. The race slows. The words stop reaching and start reflecting. The light on the countertop. The deepening scent of coffee. A single droplet sliding down the carafe, catching the sunlight. My hand loosens. The pen glides, steady and sure. I’m not solving; I’m clearing space. By the third page, I feel rinsed out, lighter. I close the notebook, pour the coffee, and take that first long sip. It’s not only the caffeine — it’s the moment itself, the warmth, the quiet return to being awake.

Now, at night, I write again. The same pen, but slower. The motion has changed. Morning was a race car; now it’s a horse and buggy ride through the park — slow, deliberate, the wheels humming gently against the path. I’m not racing thought; I’m walking beside it. The paper has texture, the ink a calm rhythm. I let the pen roll, unhurried.

I remember the warmth of sunlight on the counter, the small joke with the cashier, the sentence that finally found its shape in the afternoon. I write slowly, letting each detail reappear in sequence, the way time unfolds when you stop rushing.

When I rest the pen, I listen to my heartbeat. It moves with the steadiness of acceptance — suspended, yet at peace. My stillness isn’t stuck; it’s deliberate. I feel the quiet courage of openness in the act itself — a beginner’s heart that trusts each night to teach me again. And when I close the notebook, I feel the grounded sense of continuity — the belonging that comes from a practice built on repetition, not urgency.

I rest my palm on the cover for two beats, as if to seal the day in touch. The ink is still drying, but the moment is already shifting into memory. Around me, the house breathes: the hum of the refrigerator, a car moving through the dark, the sigh of settling wood. The world continues; I am simply in time with it.

I brush my teeth, dim the lamp, follow the small rituals that calm the mind — mindful, meta-aware. When I lie down, the air feels full of quiet motion. My breath evens, my body softens, and I sense that the writing, the pauses, the awareness — they’re all part of the same rhythm.

This is my practice: to meet time without haste, to stay awake as it passes through me, to listen for the spaces between heartbeats where meaning gathers — and then, finally, to let it all go.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc.