This was a late-spring morning, just after the rain had moved through. I had gone out for a walk and brought the camera, half-hoping for exactly this - that quiet moment when everything is wet and gleaming and the light hasn't quite figured out where it wants to go. I found these two on the tip of a single blade of grass. Two perfect droplets, hanging right at the edge, holding all that iridescent purple and blue inside them like they'd swallowed a small piece of the sky. If you look very closely, you can see me in there - just an outline of a photographer leaned in too close, caught in the curve of the water. I've been calling this one Morning Reflections, and I mean it in both ways. Because I've been doing a lot of reflecting lately. Quiet, slow, internal - the kind that doesn't happen unless you stop moving long enough to let it. And these droplets feel like an invitation. Slow down. Sit still. Be patient. Look closer. They're not in any hurry to fall. They're just holding their shape on the tip of a leaf, gathering light, being beautiful in the meantime. I think the hardest patience to practice is patience with myself. With my own pace, my own healing, my own unfinished thoughts. It's easy to be patient with the garden - nobody expects a flower to bloom on a schedule, but we somehow expect that of ourselves. Maybe the lesson of the droplet is that you can be most useful, most beautiful, most yourself, in the still moments. The pause before the fall. The breath held. The reflection caught. Slowing down is not the same as standing still. It's just letting the morning happen at the morning's pace. I'm trying.