Quiet Moments Amidst Unfamiliar Landscapes

Saturday morning arrives, gentle and deliberate, as if the universe allows this single sliver of time to move more quietly than the rest. Light filters through the limbs of the trees and  finds it way into my front window, golden and soft, illuminating rooms that once seemed so certain and now flicker with the uncertainty of the world beyond. Where laughter and family rituals once echoed, there is now a hush, a kind of collective holding of breath as the world outside transforms into something both unrecognizable and surreal.

There is a particular ache that settles on such mornings, an ache born not of nostalgia alone, but of a keen awareness that the world—once a tapestry of familiar streets, trusted faces, and shared certainties—has been altered. The sky remains blue, and the sun still rises faithfully, but the world’s stage has grown strange, the actors uncertain, and the script seemingly rewritten in an unrecognizable language.

I tune in the television and in the background of my thinking and writing I hear voices from my past as I watch at old shows, Daniel Boone, The Wild Wild West, Wagon Train, The Rifleman, and Murder She Wrote. The shows remind me of life in a simpler time, one where I knew, or thought I did, the heartbeat of this country. Believed that “We The People” were united by a moral compass that ran deep and true. That we believed in equality, opened our country to those who were oppressed, who searched for a better life, chances to grow just as our own ancestors came here did and who saw the future as a better place not one that drew lines, divided people by color, and sought to silence the truth.

Once, “home” meant more than walls and a roof. It meant a sense of belonging, and I felt a feeling of safety rooted in the consistency of daily life. The familiar voices of those reporting the news on the radio, the neighbor’s wave, the creak of the porch rocker as I sat and enjoyed the view—each detail woven into the fabric of what it meant to be “home.” Yet, as I sip my coffee in the muted light of this Saturday morning, I feel the world shifting beneath my feet. The news headlines scroll past with stories that defy belief, and outside my gates, the world seems as if it’s being rearranged by unseen hands. What was once home now feels like the setting of an improbable tale, one whose plot twists tumble over one another and brings back memories of tales of the past, horrors that I never imagined would rear up in the world that I thought had grown, learned, and become a better place.

Perhaps it’s the growing awareness that certainty itself is a luxury. Political winds shift. Connections that once felt unbreakable now seem tenuous. The voices I hear on the street tell stories of change, adaptation, and sometimes, profound loss. The sense of “unbelievability” is not just in the spectacle of events, but in the way they encroach on the rhythms we once took for granted. It’s as if the world, in its grand theater, has pulled back the curtain to reveal new scenery, and we are all compelled to adjust our steps.

On mornings like these, memory becomes both a refuge and a challenge. I remember walking through my neighborhood as a child, the pavement warm beneath my feet, the air thick with expectation and possibility. I remember simplicity and innocence, the sound of a distant lawnmower, the certainty that tomorrow would be much like today. These recollections are sharp and sweet, but they also serve as a contrast to the present, where every new headline seems to redraw the boundaries of what is possible or permissible.

Yet, memory is not a perfect shelter. It can’t disguise the fact that the world, for all its wonder and beauty, is undergoing a transformation that feels at times like erosion and at others, like abrupt tectonic shifts. Technology connects us more than ever, but sometimes only to broadcast the chaos, the conflicts, the fractures. What was once home—a known constellation of place, people, and tradition—now floats, unanchored, in a sea of unpredictability. I sit and wonder if the stillness of predictability, the goodness, the moral lines that seemed evident and followed will fade so far away they can’t be seen again.

And so, Saturday morning becomes a sanctuary, my peaceful place. A time where I fold into myself, where I resist the urge to scroll endlessly or to measure my life against the world’s noise. In the stillness here, I can remember that despite the strangeness of the world outside, there remains inside me a measure of hope, my faith is strong and I believe that I can hold on to the good inside of myself. The scent of brewing coffee, the sound of my mutts playing in the yard,  the soft sounds of nature as it wakes, the warmth of sunlight as it spreads across the floor of the porch and into the windows—these are not insignificant. They remind me that even in a landscape that feels foreign, small acts of mindfulness can create pockets of belonging.

There is power in taking care of oneself, in choosing stillness, in claiming space for reflection when everything urges us to react, to worry, to chase certainty. The world may be unbelievable, but within its chaos, there is a kind of unexpected beauty, a resilience that surfaces in quiet moments where I see hope bloom. There are people who feel as I do, who are appalled and will resist the ideas that are meant to divide us all.  It’s there in the neighbor who waves, even as they face the same uncertainty. It’s in messages shared and sent, ideals shared across screens, and people gathering in public spaces to raise the voice of concern to fight against the evil that is raising it head. The fabric of “home” may be stretched and reshaped, but it is not entirely lost.

There is humility in admitting that we do not control the story, but there is also courage in the willingness to be part of it, to continue to build and rebuild meaning in ever-shifting sands.  I think of how nature itself adapts and evolves.  Trees growing in wind-battered fields, roots gripping earth despite the storms. Birds that return year after year, even as their habitats change shape. Life finds a way.. Life goes on…

As the morning wanes and the world’s noise beckons, I take one last moment to savor the hush. I acknowledge the sadness, the confusion, and the awe that accompany living in a world that seems destined to fall further from the reality I have always known

Saturday morning reflections are not about retreat, but about renewal. They are an act of gentle rebellion—a refusal to let the unbelievable drive out hope. In the quiet, I remember that even as the world shifts and I feel the heaviness of its changes, I, we, can remain capable of wonder, of kindness, and of creating meaning. The world may no longer look as it once did, but within each of us is the enduring power to call forth a sense of home, one Saturday morning at a time. I hope today you find your peace, feel Gods strength, and breathe deeply and know that life does go on…  Take care of yourself, that is most important in this time…