Wake up late because your white noise machine drowned out your alarm.

Have your new alarm be your husband of 40 years waking you by rubbing your feet.

Stumble out of bed, throw on your clothes from yesterday, including your late father-in-law's delicious flannel shirt.

Reheat yesterday's coffee in your second favorite mug because you broke your first favorite mug.

Take your treasured book of Psalms and your journal outside. Anywhere in the sun will do.

Have a seat.

Take a deep breath and let the sun kiss your face, still creased from your pillow.

Start to read your most beloved Psalm and then notice the steam rising from your freshly warmed, semi-stale mug of coffee into the chilly morning air.

Become entranced by the beauty of the steam as it swirls and whirls and dances into the wind. Stare in awe at those ribbons of water molecules.

Observe their beauty.

Admire their patterns.

Envy their luxurious ease.

Witness their brief, beautiful life.

Remember the Scripture from the book of James:

What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

Ponder that passage briefly so as to not cue too much existential angst on such a stunning morning.

Resolve to live the day to the full, right out to its edges.

Remember that to have one wild and precious life (hi Mary Oliver) you must have one wild and precious day after the other.

Smile.

Gulp down your now-lukewarm coffee.

Rise, grateful for an impromptu coffee steam meditation.

Go live, you little mist.

Go live.