She awoke to light. The golden rays of dawn slipping through the blinds like silky legs under lingerie. Never an early riser, she blinked, softly, slowly, again and again until morning registered. Still not ready to leave the cocoon of cotton and fleece she’d wound herself into, she closed her eyes again, and sank deeper into the warmth.

To anyone else, the quiet might have seemed deafening, but having lived alone for a few years she’d come to understand that stillness isn’t silence and that lack of noise doesn’t mean lack of sound. If you listen long enough, with patience for the moment, you eventually notice the rhythm of your breath, the hum of a honeybee, the wind chime of leaves, the quiet groan of a settling house, God’s whisper in your heart. She called it the symphony of life and this morning she was content to enjoy the show from her bed for as long as possible.

But soon the call of day beckoned more loudly than the small, lovely sounds of morning and arching her back, extending her limbs, she rose from the downy pillows like the opening of a flower’s first petals in Spring. She sat, feet dangling over the side of her bed, gingerly tilting her head from one side to the other, trying to expel the night from her stiff frame.

Had she dreamed? Perhaps. Though she rarely, if ever, remembered night visions. She was more of a daydreamer, often lost in her own world, even when fully present in the one surrounding her.

Inviting the day with one, long deep breath, she set her feet on the floor and made her way to the kitchen. A lover of routines, but by no means rigid, she always followed a particular set of tasks whether she realized it or not. Standing at the sink she slid back the curtains and opened the window. The sun had not yet burned away the cool morning air and it filled the room from floor to ceiling with the opportunities of a new day.

She smiled to herself for no particular reason and reached for a glass. She marveled as the light passed through it, refracting in different directions, sending beams onto the counter. Had she been any less of the woman she was, she might have thought about how, much like the tall, clear glass in her hand, her life was a bit empty at the moment. At least that’s how it looked to many an outside observer.

But she had never been one to think in such a way. Certainly she’d had her moments of worry and concern. Certainly she’d felt alone at times. Certainly she’d wondered how to move forward. But never had she felt empty.

She reached for the faucet and began to fill the glass with water. Higher and higher it rose, almost to the top, but for some reason, on this morning, she didn’t move. Instead, she watched as the water began to flow past the rim, down the sides, and over her fingers. Rushing through her like a flood of energy, love and possibilities, the water poured, and she–happy, bright, ready–stood thankful for the overflowing glass she held tightly in her hands.