This morning as I opened my eyes and looked out the window, my sleepy gaze was filled with the abstract shapes and 50 shades of green pine branches and needles. Our bedroom here in the cabin in the woods, near the lake, is a converted screened porch, all glass, and nestled among the trees. It’s like being in a see-through tent outdoors.

There is an odd orb in the sky, shining down on me this warm Sunday morning. We’ve not seen it for most of the summer, other than the week of my Adirondack Publisher’s Invitational. The “summer of rain” has hopefully come to an end, and today, once the kids awaken, I’m looking forward to a lake day with the family, with no agenda.

I’m tired. It's early, and I awoke this morning in spite of wishing for more sleep. It's rare that I wake up tired; today I’m still fatigued after driving about seven hours yesterday. But I was returning to the lake, my muse, the most cherished place in my life, after a few days of stark contrast in the Boston area to provide my son with the educational opportunity of a lifetime: the Congress of Future Scientists and Technology Leaders. It’s an annual event, by invitation only to 7,000 kids from across our land, to get access to and opinions from the great minds of our world. I was pleased to be a fly on the wall and a VIP guest, and pleased to give my son a chance to hang with the luminaries of science.

This morning the rain is pounding the house like Niagara Falls. The noise is deafening, yet somehow makes the house feel more quiet, more secure. It’s almost like a giant hug from nature, and it’s saying, “Stay inside, don’t be in a hurry to go outside to get to your day. Take a day for yourself inside to relax, to read, to think.”

You’re looking especially fine this morning. If you’re a dad, happy dad’s day. If you’re missing your dad, please know my heart is with you. I always look forward to what the kids come up for me to do with them on this day. I’m up early … the sun has been coming up about 4:30 these days, and these early mornings are so peaceful. The lake remains still. The light has not yet hit the “golden” moments, but it won’t be long. Meanwhile, the mountain is reflecting a deep bluish-green-purple color in the water, and we’ve got some puffy clouds. Hope it’s not rain. I’m sitting in a bright red Adirondack chair, which is entirely appropriate, considering I’m at a lake in the Adirondack Park.

I’m in a relaxed state of mind as the fog lifts off the lake this Sunday morning. There is a loon about 30 feet off the dock and she just took a dive, startled by the noise of my fingers on my iPad’s keyboard. The lake is quiet and peaceful, no boat noise. I did see an early morning canoe in the distance, in the shadow of the mountain. There are layers of trees, each a little lighter and grayer as they recede into the distance, and the water is still as a statue. The lake is like a giant amplifier, and I can actually hear the conversation of the couple in the canoe though they are a half mile away. Nothing interesting, just small talk.

As a family we had been spending our summers on a lake in Indiana for three generations (four including my brothers and me), and I remember my dad saying that when his grandfather used to take him fishing on the lake, there were no speedboats, no noisy Jet Skis, and almost no homes on the lake. But that all changed, and my dad began to realize that the only reason our family was still on this lake was because he’d grown up there. We were there for tradition. His grandfather had been there because it was a beautiful and peaceful place at the time.

Sunday mornings are special to me because I don't have to wake early and get the kids off to school. It's the day I break my routine of going to the gym before work. My Sunday-morning routine is to wake up before everyone else in the household, sit here in my studio in the "model's" chair, and just think. It's nice and quiet, and I can look out over the property to enjoy the golden morning light.

As I was driving to the airport and rushing to catch a plane, my father sent me a text that said, “I’m going to come to your Plein Air Convention. I want to see what you do.” I was blown away. My dad was going to take his time and money to get on a plane and fly across the U.S., in order to be supportive of his son.

I feel like one of the luckiest men alive. I knew and spent time with my grandparents as an adult and had all four for many years into adulthood. Three out of four lived into their mid-90s, which is a strong indicator of good genes. I’m also blessed to have both of my parents, and they remain active, mentally alert, and very engaged. In fact, my dad flew out to the Plein Air Convention by himself and hung out with us for a couple of days before he went on a photo expedition. He wanted to see what his kid does for a living and be supportive. I’ve got a great dad and mom who support me.

This morning as I sit here on the back porch, I’m watching a mama sparrow bringing food to her babies in a nest tucked into the rafters of our porch. The little birds are learning to fly. I’m watching them hop from the nest to the blades of our ceiling fan and then on to the branches of the stately oaks in the back yard. As they jump, they first fall before they engage their wings, which then propel them to the next branch. If they forget to use their wings, which they do from time to time, they hit the ground, then shake it off, hop to a branch, and start over. Birds learn like we all learn. Trial and error.