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On Greif and Grieving June 2026
- kresicki
- 17 hours ago
- 5 min read
June 1, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections — 6:35 AM
As I scan the horizon this morning, the sun has now climbed to perhaps ten degrees above it, its light filtering through the branches of the pine tree just beyond the deck.
What only moments ago appeared to be an ordinary scene has been transformed by the arrival of daylight.
Long shadows stretch across the lawn toward the house, while the early sunlight paints the landscape in countless shades of green. Between the great oak to the left and the pine standing watch ahead, every leaf seems to reflect a different hue. Gold and green mingle together as the morning sun works its quiet magic.
It's another reminder that beauty often isn't found in extraordinary places or events, but in ordinary moments viewed under a different light.
Standing here with coffee in hand, I find myself grateful for these small daily performances nature offers so freely. The same trees, the same lawn, the same deck, but never quite the same morning.
There's also something symbolic about this image. The closed umbrella stands quietly in the foreground, almost like a sentinel keeping watch, while behind it the day awakens. It has a peaceful, contemplative quality that seems to fit this mornings observations perfectly.
6:40 AM
As I shifted my gaze to the right of where the sun had risen, it became apparent that the morning light had reached a new stage in its daily journey.
The hillside beyond the house was now fully illuminated, its gentle slope awash in golden sunlight.
What drew my attention most, however, were the trellises in the garden. The hanging baskets of marigolds, which only moments earlier blended quietly into the scenery, suddenly seemed to come alive. Their blossoms caught the sunlight and reflected it back with surprising brilliance, standing out against the darker greens surrounding them.
It's remarkable how often the smallest details reveal themselves only when the light is just right. The flowers were there yesterday, and they'll likely be there tomorrow, yet this morning they seemed entirely different, not because they had changed, but because the light had.
Standing there with coffee in hand, I was reminded once again that nature rarely repeats itself exactly. Every sunrise writes its own version of the same story.
There's also something symbolic here that feels very familiar to me. The marigolds remind me of those small blessings I often notice throughout the day, easy to overlook until a ray of light falls upon them. Much like memories, friendships, or moments of peace, they are always present, but occasionally the right light allows them to shine a little brighter.
At 7:13 AM, while measuring oats, nuts, and seeds for a batch of homemade granola, I found my attention repeatedly drifting toward the patio doors.
With every glance outside, the stage seemed to become a little more magnificent.
The sun had climbed higher into the eastern sky and was now illuminating the landscape with increasing intensity. Long shadows stretched across the field like dark brushstrokes painted upon a canvas of brilliant green, while the trees along the horizon glowed with warm golden light.
Looking upward, the sky seemed determined to steal the show. Wisps of cloud and lingering contrails had spread themselves across the deep blue expanse in patterns that appeared almost deliberate, as if an artist had taken a brush to the heavens. The streaks seemed to rise from the horizon and reach endlessly skyward, drawing the eye higher and higher.
The sunlight caught the edges of the clouds, giving them a soft luminescence that contrasted beautifully with the rich blue surrounding them. Below, the field shimmered beneath the morning light while the familiar trees stood quietly beneath the spectacle unfolding overhead.
As I continued preparing breakfast, it became increasingly difficult to concentrate on granola. Nature was presenting a performance far more captivating than anything taking place in the kitchen.
Some mornings simply arrive.
Others seem to build upon themselves minute by minute, each passing moment revealing another layer of beauty.
This was one of those mornings. The stage just kept getting better.
A Granola Experiment
Yesterday afternoon I found myself craving a granola bar, but not the kind that comes from a cardboard box on a grocery store shelf.
After considering a few possibilities and recipes, the idea stayed with me overnight. This morning, while keeping one eye on the sunrise and the other on the kitchen counter, I decided to create my own version.
Rather than following a specific recipe, I borrowed ideas from several and combined the ingredients that appealed most to me. Rolled oats formed the foundation, joined by walnuts, pepitas, sunflower seeds, sliced almonds, raisins, and chia seeds.
To bind everything together, I prepared a mixture of honey, maple syrup, peanut butter, butter, vanilla, and an egg white, hoping it would hold the entire concoction together once baked.
The kitchen photograph also tells a little story of its own. Coffee maker at the ready, sunrise beyond the patio doors, ingredients assembled on the counter, and Fran's sign hanging above the workspace:
"This kitchen is seasoned with love."
Considering the amount of cooking, baking, and sharing I've done in this kitchen over the years, that sign seems less like decoration and more like a statement of fact.
As the morning sunlight continued to brighten the landscape outside the patio doors, the granola mixture came together surprisingly well. Spread evenly across the baking sheet and ready for the oven, it already looked more promising than many of the store-bought varieties that inspired the project in the first place.
Whether it emerges as granola bars, crunchy clusters, or something in between remains to be seen, but the experiment itself has already been worthwhile.
I suspect Fran would have approved of this approach. It has all the hallmarks of a home kitchen recipe, less about exact measurements and more about combining good ingredients until something feels right.
One of the advantages of homemade granola is that it doesn't have to conform to the perfectly rectangular, factory-produced notion of a "granola bar." I n fact, I would think many of the best batches end up producing a little of both worlds, some sturdy bars and some wonderfully irregular clusters.
Looking at the pan, my first thought was just a bit thin toward the edges for producing uniformly thick bars across the entire sheet. But that's hardly a problem. The center portion will likely yield the strongest, most cohesive bars, while the thinner edges may become the crunchy clusters that so many people search for in a bag of granola.
As a matter of fact, those clusters are often my favorite part of granola. When broken over plain Greek yogurt, they provide everything at once:
Crunch from the toasted oats and nuts
Sweetness from the honey and maple syrup
Richness from the walnuts and almonds
Chewiness from the raisins
A bit of protein and substance from the seeds and peanut butter
Given the ingredient list, I suspect the granola-over-yogurt version may end up being every bit as enjoyable as the bars themselves.
What I find particularly satisfying is how this project seems to have evolved.
Yesterday afternoon it was simply a craving for a granola bar. By sunrise this morning, it had become a kitchen experiment unfolding alongside my observations of the changing sky. Now, instead of a box from the grocery store, I'll have a batch made exactly to my tastes, containing ingredients I selected myself.
I have a feeling that by lunchtime I'll know whether I've made granola bars, granola clusters, or some combination of the two. My guess is that I'll be perfectly happy if the result turns out to be both.
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