# One Hour at a Time

Life rushes by in days and years, but an hour sits quietly in our hands, small enough to hold, large enough to change.

## The Gentle Boundary

An hour marks a boundary, not a wall. It ends just as we notice it beginning, like breath slipping in and out. On mornings like this one—clear and cold, February 2, 2026—I sit with coffee, watching steam rise. Sixty minutes feel solid, a container for whatever I choose to pour in. No grand plans, just this: walk the dog, read a page, listen to rain tap the window. It's a promise to myself that today won't slip entirely away.

## What We Carry Forward

In that hour, ordinary things gain shape. We write a note to a friend, stir soup for lunch, or simply stare at the sky until a thought settles. These aren't heroic acts, but they build quietly:

- A conversation that eases a worry.
- A sketch of an idea, rough but real.
- Silence that lets the mind unfold.

What carries forward isn't the clock's tick, but the warmth left behind—a shared laugh, a solved puzzle, a moment of rest. Hours stack like stones in a riverbed, steadying the flow.

## Beyond the Glass

Think of an hourglass: sand falls, unhurried, grain by grain. We can't stop it, but we can watch, and in watching, choose our gaze. Some hours ache with loss; others glow with surprise. Either way, the next one waits, empty and open.

*In every hour lies a quiet invitation: be here, fully.*