The Hummingbird Who Comes for Breakfast

Most mornings begin in much the same way.

A favorite cup.
Warm tea.
A few quiet minutes before the day asks anything of me.

And lately, a hummingbird.

This morning, I settled into my chair while the garden was still waking. A hummingbird arrived at the purple salvia and began moving from blossom to blossom.

We each enjoyed breakfast in our own way.

One sip.
One flower.
Then another.

Neither of us hurried.

There was no performance and no need to capture the morning before it disappeared. There were simply two small rituals unfolding beside one another.

We have grown three salvias on the deck for two summers now—fuchsia, blue, and purple. This year I could only find the purple, though fuchsia always appeared to be the favorite.

But this morning, the purple was enough.

Perhaps that is part of what returning teaches us. Familiarity does not make a place predictable. A living garden continues to choose, change, and surprise us.

The hummingbird knows there will be flowers here.

I know there will be tea.

Neither of us made an arrangement. We simply returned often enough for our mornings to begin overlapping.

It reminded me that friendship is not always something we plan or name. Sometimes it grows quietly through presence.

The same chair.
The same garden.
The same willingness to arrive.

And for a few minutes, breakfast was shared.

A Gentle Invitation

Tomorrow morning, try not to rush your first cup.

Whether it is tea, coffee, or simply a few moments beside a window, stay long enough to notice who else has begun the day near you.

You may discover you have been sharing breakfast with a friend all along.

Love,
Suel 🌿