Dawn sand and a slow jazz tune

I woke before dawn, rubbed my toes in Brighton's cold sand and hummed a crooked Fats Waller tune until the gulls approved. Brewed peppermint tea strong enough to steady a palpitating heart, and opened a postcard from a workshop attendee whose shaky handwriting read like a tiny victory.

Turned that tiny victory into a lesson plan about slow hands, clearer words and where shame likes to hide — the backdoor keeps secrets, but teaches tenderness when given permission. If curiosity arrives wrapped in clumsiness, bring questions, bring biscuits, and someone who laughs when a joke slips; I'll bring a sliver of sea-glass for cooling and company.