One of the greatest joys of my week in Ireland was waking up in the peaceful countryside home of my kind host, Trevor. Mornings there had a rare kind of stillness, a quiet that settled deep into the bones. By the time I wandered into the kitchen, the wood stove would already be burning, filling the room with a gentle crackling warmth.

I’d sink into the couch with a book open in my lap, though I often found myself simply gazing at the soft glow of the morning sun. Even through the cloudiness, it offered a subtle, tender transition from night to day.

Outside the window, the birds gathered, feasting on the hearty breakfast Trevor faithfully left out for them each day. I sipped a dark cup of French press coffee and simply existed in that space—no hurry, no noise—for an hour or so before the others stirred. Sometimes, I read. Other times, Trevor and I would talk.