Morning Magic

Sometimes I remember a strange, quiet feeling from childhood. It didn’t have a name. But it was strong. And real.

I would wake up early. Open my eyes—then close them again for a few seconds. Not because I was tired. But because everything was still moving slowly.

Then I’d open them for real. And look slowly at the ceiling. As if something there might have changed. As if the world wasn’t fully turned on yet, and for a few seconds, I could just exist inside it.

A beam of sunlight would slip through the curtain’s edge— not soft, not scattered, but direct, thick, alive. It would fall across the wall or the floor or the edge of my bed. And sometimes, you could see it: the dust floating slowly through that light. Almost nothing moved. But that sunbeam said: the day has begun. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just—now it’s here.

Somewhere in the house—the rustle of someone moving. A kettle. Outside, birds. Five or six cars might pass. But even that didn’t sound like noise. It sounded like proof that the world was gently waking up.

And I would lie there. Not hurrying. No one calling. Nothing needed.

And the feeling? It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t about meaning. It wasn’t about happiness.

It was: the body’s yes, before the mind wakes up. When you haven’t thought yet, but already know: "I feel good here." And nothing needs to be earned, explained, or changed.

Now everything is different. Alarms. Children. A phone in your hand. Movements you know by heart: get up, wake them, prepare, reply. The world switches on fast—and it wants things from you immediately.

And mornings like those have become rare. Almost impossible.

But still—sometimes, they return. Not because it’s quiet. Not because you finally have time. But simply because the feeling shows up. Without reason. Without question. As if it had been walking toward you for a long time— and suddenly, it found you.

The air is still. Light cuts across the room. The world breathes—and you realize: this is it.

Recently, my child heard me try to describe this feeling. He thought for a moment and said: "It’s like a turtle in space."

And I suddenly knew: exactly. Slow. Weightless. Alive. And going nowhere at all.

And now, when a morning like that returns— it isn’t just a good day. It’s that same fragile feeling returning. You simply trust the world. No reason. No question.

That’s real magic. The magic of morning.