Coffee and Thousand Good Mornings

At sunrise the garden is honest. No filters, no gloss, only light, dew, and small choices that shape a season. I step out with a mug in one hand and micro pruners in the other, that quiet click open feels like a promise. Basil leans into the path. Tomatoes bead with dew. Okra stands tall. The air smells green, tomato vines, pepper leaves, and a hint of rosemary oil that ends up on my fingers no matter what I planned to pick.

I start with what is ready. A quick pinch of basil tops so the plant grows full. A few okra pods before they get tough. A bowl of cherry tomatoes so they do not bruise. Harvest slows the whole day down. You notice which branch set fruit first, where the shade line moved since June, and what last week’s storm taught the trellis about wind. You take notes without writing, and the garden writes them on you.

Between the basil and the okra I start thinking about the bigger project. I see this same morning scaled up and shared. I see the first turn into the campus, gravel crunch, sun still soft, and the education building catching the light. Windows say come look. Doors say come try. The pavilion waits with shade and a long clean table. Heritage beds fan out like pages you can read with your hands.

In my mind I walk the space the way I walk my yard. You pull in and park without stress. A Saturday class is setting up. A volunteer carries trays of seedlings. Someone props a whiteboard against a table. A kid bounces because there is a seed station and someone told them seeds feel like magic. The lesson starts simple. Soil is living. Water is patient. Seeds are tiny maps if you give them a chance.

I want the campus to feel like my morning. Coffee in one hand. Tools in the other. Work that is good. We begin with what is ready. A class that needs curiosity more than perfect gear. Rows of okra and berries because the plants our grandparents knew still teach the best lessons. A small harvest for each person to take home, because a windowsill full of almost ripe veggies can lift a week.

In my garden the micro pruners remind me that growth needs shaping. If you do not trim the basil, it bolts. If you do not stake the tomatoes, they sprawl and rot. The foundation needs the same care. Paths that make sense. Beds that are clear. A flow from I am new here to I can teach someone else. We will choose plants that forgive a missed watering and still taste like home in our area. The first thing you see when you arrive will not be a wall of names. It will be a place to put your hands to work.

People learn best when you start with what they already know. We begin with a story about a windowsill tomato, or a memory of shelling peas, or a backyard that once fed a family. You hand someone the pruners, you show where to cut, and you let them feel the clean snap. Confidence blooms in that small moment. A person who once said they can't grow anything shows a child how deep to plant a seed. Someone crushes a mint leaf between their fingers and the room fills with a bright scent. It is simple. It is real.

Back in my yard I gather herbs for the day. Basil, chives, and thyme will make the kitchen smell like the garden by noon. This is what I want for Tulsa, kitchens that smell like victory, not scarcity. Not a handout, a hand in. People with dirt under their nails and a plan taped to the fridge. A place where the morning ritual is shared, repeated, and passed on.

I stand still for a moment and listen. Wind in the trees. A car on the street. A bird that thinks the tomato cage is a stage. Then I hear something else in my head, a low hum from a place that is waking up together. Chairs slide back. Hands clap soil off. Someone says look when a sprout breaks the surface for the first time. That is the campus speaking before it is built.

So I keep snipping and let the map sharpen. Today’s harvest will become a simple lunch. A few basil leafs rinsed and chooped, tomatoes crushed, and sweet yet pungent onions are diced, and the sound of the sizzle as they hit the hot oil in the pan. This is the energy we will carry into the first classroom, calm, prepared, generous, and already thinking one season ahead.

If you can see this place at sunrise, education first, hands busy, hope you can smell, pitch in today. Donate, volunteer, or spread the word. Let us build a thousand good mornings together.