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Yesterday’s moonrise over Cabarete, Dominican Republic.
04/02/2026

Yesterday’s moonrise over Cabarete, Dominican Republic.

Forty days of stubborn searching, cranky heart in tow, and the path finally opens.Not with trumpets or thunder—just a qu...
03/29/2026

Forty days of stubborn searching, cranky heart in tow, and the path finally opens.
Not with trumpets or thunder—just a quiet arch of welcome beneath the sky’s soft blush, where every leaf and breeze seems to lean in and say, You made it.
We hunted the good s**t in raindrops and raptor dives, in walking leaves and dawn’s first fire, and now the threshold stands unguarded.
Palm Sunday’s humble parade arrives in ordinary splendor: grace was never far away; it was waiting on the other side of our ordinary days.
So step through.
The Lenten discipline is complete, but the good s**t? It’s only beginning—wild, relentless, and already ours.
(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)
40 days of Photos: Peter Pauley

On the thirty-ninth morning,when the desert of the ordinary stretched long and gray,the sky cracked open like an ancient...
03/28/2026

On the thirty-ninth morning,
when the desert of the ordinary stretched long and gray,
the sky cracked open like an ancient promise.
Not with trumpets.
Not with thunder.
But with a single, molten coin of light
rising slow through veils of violet and rose,
spilling liquid gold across still water
as if the world itself had decided to remember joy.
Reeds stood silent in silhouette,
guardians of the threshold,
their reflections trembling like prayers half-spoken.
The sun, humble and enormous at once,
burned away the night’s complaints
and painted the ordinary blue into something holy.
Who knew dawn could arrive so quietly fierce?
Who suspected that even cranky hearts
could be rewarmed by a single rising ember?
Behold: the Blue Sunrise has come.
Not to scold the weary,
but to whisper—
“Look.
Even here, in the middle of everything familiar,
the Universe still practices resurrection
in colors too beautiful for words.”
Day 39: Light returns, uninvited and generous.
And for one glowing moment,
the crankiness softens,
and we remember how to breathe in wonder again.

(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

On the thirty-eighth dawn of our forty-day wander,when the heart had grown heavy with ordinary dust,a leaf stirred—not f...
03/28/2026

On the thirty-eighth dawn of our forty-day wander,
when the heart had grown heavy with ordinary dust,
a leaf stirred—
not fallen, not drifting, but walking.
Veined in living emerald, it paused upon the frost-kissed blue of morning,
antennae tasting secrets the wind had forgotten to tell.
In that single, impossible breath,
the veil between the seen and the unseen tore open just enough
to let wonder slip through like sudden sunlight.
Who knew the Ordinary could grow legs and wings of disguise?
Who suspected the quiet world still practiced such holy mischief?
Behold: the Walking Leaf has come.
Not to preach, not to scold—
only to remind the cranky soul
that even in the desert of the familiar,
Creation still delights in surprising us
with its green, breathing poetry.
Day 38: Surprise walks on six delicate legs.
And for one luminous moment,
we are not so very cranky after all.

(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 38: Even the sky throws shade.Look at this stubborn sun—peeking through the clouds like it has better things to do, ...
03/26/2026

Day 38: Even the sky throws shade.
Look at this stubborn sun—peeking through the clouds like it has better things to do, yet still painting the whole horizon in warm gold and fiery orange. The water doesn’t mind the drama; it simply catches the light and sends it shimmering right back at me.
Some mornings, one wakes up cranky, convinced the day is already stacked against me. Then the sky pulls off a scene like this and quietly reminds me: even when things feel dark and heavy, the light finds a way through. It doesn’t wait for permission. It doesn’t bargain with my mood.
The clouds can cast their shadows all they want. The sun still rises. And if that bright ball of fire can drag itself above the treeline and turn the lake into a path of sparkling beauty, maybe—just maybe—I can roll out of bed and do the same.
Even if it’s only for a few shining minutes.

(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 37:Some days the world feels like a black-and-white photograph: flat, predictable, a little worn around the edges. T...
03/25/2026

Day 37:

Some days the world feels like a black-and-white photograph: flat, predictable, a little worn around the edges. The dock creaks the same old complaint. The water reflects the same gray sky. Everything looks… done.
And then, without asking permission, a single slash of impossible blue steps into the frame.
One great blue heron, vivid as a dare, strolling across the dock like it owns the copyright on color itself. No fanfare. No announcement. Just quiet defiance in feather form, reminding every cranky soul that beauty doesn’t wait for the scene to deserve it. It shows up anyway.
Forty days of trying to notice the good stuff.
Some days it’s subtle.
Today it’s electric blue, walking on water, daring you to stay gray.
Look up.
Look around.
The heron is already here.

(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 36: Carpenter BeeShe arrives without fanfare, a velvet thunderclap in the morning light.Black wings edged in deep wi...
03/24/2026

Day 36: Carpenter Bee
She arrives without fanfare, a velvet thunderclap in the morning light.
Black wings edged in deep wine, thorax dusted with gold like a miner fresh from the vein.
Her eyes hold galaxies—compound, unblinking, ancient.
She does not ask permission from the flower; she simply claims it, heavy and sure, legs gripping the petal with the quiet authority of someone who knows exactly why she’s here.
There is no frantic buzzing, no nervous hover.
Just presence.
Solid.
Intentional.
She drills the air with purpose, carving tunnels through the day the way her sisters once carved homes into dead wood—steady, patient, unafraid of the work.
In a world that rewards the loudest and the quickest, she reminds us that real power often wears a quiet coat.
That strength can look like stillness right before the next deliberate move.
That sometimes the most beautiful thing you can do is show up fully, take what you need without apology, and leave the flower better for having been touched by you.
Carpenter Bee doesn’t chase the spotlight.
She builds in the shadows, pollinates in silence, and flies on wings that drink the sun.
And for one suspended moment on this purple throne, she lets us witness what it looks like to simply be exactly enough.
(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 35:In the hush of ordinary mornings,a white squirrel steps from the ordinary world—not gray-brown camouflage, but a ...
03/23/2026

Day 35:
In the hush of ordinary mornings,
a white squirrel steps from the ordinary world—
not gray-brown camouflage, but a sudden spill of moonlight
on fallen maple, a ghost made flesh,
red-violet gaze like embers from another season.
Most squirrels scurry in the expected rhythm,
hoarding acorns against the lean days ahead,
but this one pauses, as if the veil between worlds
thinned just enough for wonder to slip through.
Leucistic miracle, or albino grace—
rare as a whispered prophecy,
it carries no sermon, only the quiet shock
of beauty insisting on itself
in a world that forgets to look twice.
Perhaps it's the old folklore stirring:
a herald of change, a brush of good fortune,
purity darting across the grass like a promise
that the ordinary can still surprise us,
that grace arrives unannounced,
small and swift and impossibly bright.
Or maybe it's simpler, more mystical still—
a reminder that the divine hides in plain sight,
wearing fur and whiskers,
waiting for cranky hearts to notice
and let themselves be startled into joy.
(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 34:Sometimes the best view is the one where you’re small against something massive… and still feel completely at hom...
03/22/2026

Day 34:
Sometimes the best view is the one where you’re small against something massive… and still feel completely at home.
Sun doing its thing.
Bird doing its thing.
Coconut palm just holding space.
That’s enough for today. ☀️🐦 📸
(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 33The sun doesn’t rush. It rises slow and heavy through the morning fog, turning the whole world into a soft, glowin...
03/21/2026

Day 33
The sun doesn’t rush. It rises slow and heavy through the morning fog, turning the whole world into a soft, glowing bruise of orange and shadow. Out here the center pivot stands like some ancient metal heron—long arms outstretched, motionless, carrying its water bag like a promise it’s too tired to deliver just yet.
Everything is quiet except the low hum of light itself burning through the haze. No birds yelling, no wind complaining, just the sun doing its patient, stubborn work of showing up again.
In the middle of all the machinery we built to tame the dirt, this simple, ordinary dawn refuses to be ignored. It slips right past the rust and the wires and says:
Hey.
Still here.
Still beautiful.
Still worth the wait.
Sometimes the good stuff isn’t a surprise or a revelation.
Sometimes it’s just the reminder that the world keeps turning, the light keeps coming, and even on the foggiest mornings, something bigger than our plans is still burning bright.
Grateful for the stubborn sunrise. Grateful for the silhouette that lets me see it clearly.
Breathe it in. Let it hit harder than the headlines.

(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 32:In the middle of ordinary green, he decides today is the day to unfurl glory. Iridescent blues and greens explode...
03/20/2026

Day 32:
In the middle of ordinary green, he decides today is the day to unfurl glory. Iridescent blues and greens explode like a reminder that beauty isn't polite—it struts, it dazzles, it demands to be seen. Amid all the noise we carry, this feathered king simply says: yeah, the world still makes breathtaking stuff sometimes. Pause. Breathe it in. Let gratitude hit harder than the display. 🌿🦚

(a Lenten discipline for cranky people)

Day 31Above the mirror of morning wateran osprey folds the sky into itself,dives like a psalm spoken sharp and sudden.No...
03/19/2026

Day 31
Above the mirror of morning water
an osprey folds the sky into itself,
dives like a psalm spoken sharp and sudden.
No rehearsal, no doubt—
only the arrow of hunger drawn taut
and released into silver.
Talons claim the flashing promise below;
wings gather the wet world again,
lifting both fish and reflection
toward some quiet altar of branch and nest.
In this suspended breath between plunge and rise
the cranky heart remembers:
grace is not soft.
It strikes clean, carries weight,
and still ascends.
Let today be that one sure motion—
not frantic flapping, but the single, singing arc
that says, I saw, I moved, I hold.
The rest is ripple and light.

(a lenten discipline for cranky people)

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