morningsong
Jun. 22nd, 2006 10:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aithneAt 4:45 AM, the monks start singing.
I reliably need about half an hour of half-awakeness before I can manage to face the prospect of being vertical, so I hit the snooze bar and roll over. The clock says it's 5:30, and for the moment, I believe it.
Half an hour later, the clock says 6 but it's really 5:15. Setting the clock later makes it easier to get out of bed; somehow, it's easier to face the world when the clock says 6 instead of 5. I get out of bed, stumble to the bathroom to the accompaniment of sleepy mrrrrts from Juniper, who's slept the night on my bed, and Selena, who came in when my alarm went off for snuggles and pets. This morning, about 4:15, Greebo caroled as the sun began to rise, wondering loudly why none of us were up yet. I've been half-awake ever since.
Pat down my hair, take my meds; I'm back in my bedroom now pulling on my running clothes. Downstairs, I pull Juniper and give Greebo and him treats. I'm still groggy, a bit cranky; I'm still adjusting to waking up earlier, and I'm currently running in a bit of sleep deprivation. But I go anyway.
Gather things--water bottle, iPod, waist pouch, keys. Out the door and into the car, where I see that it's 5:50. By 6, I'm parked and getting myself arranged for a run.
I'm going to go easy on myself today. My muscles ache, my eyes are bleary. Not a good morning to push myself, I decide. The point, right now, is that I'm out here doing this, not necessarily how far or fast I run. I didn't get a run in yesterday, because I had to go have fasting bloodwork done, and there is nothing more unpleasant than doing a run and coming back and not being able to have breakfast. I get very, very cranky when my blood sugar's low.
So I start out walking, hit the first mile marker, run a quarter mile. Walk the next quarter mile. Run again. The fog's beginning to clear. It's a brilliant Pacific Northwest summer morning, the day after the solstice, the light pouring through the trees like water. My favorite time of year here, and my favorite time of day during my favorite time of year. Everything is so, so green, and as I head into the wooded section of the trail, I am surrounded and swallowed by green.
Ahead, where sunlight puddles beneath a break in the trees, I see movement, and my head comes up. Thump-thump. A deer, wandered out on the trail, walking along the asphalt and nibbling at the foliage. A buck, I see, probably a young one from the horns. It stops, looks at me, flicks its ears.
A passing cyclist spooks it into the trees, and by the time I get to where it was, it's long gone. I run again. Another quarter mile down. My legs hurt, my knees hurt, but the thing that does not hurt is my upper back, and that in itself is a minor miracle after the past couple of weeks. There's still a knot between my shoulders, but that's an old friend and does not trouble me in the slightest.
Run, walk, run; I cross the bridge, reach the mile marker, turn around and cross it again. Familiar deep breaths, familiar pain in my legs, familiar sense of fatigue to push through. I can't stop just because I'm tired. For one thing, my car's a mile away now and I really want a shower before I go to work. For another thing, this gets better. Next week, I will be able to run more. The week after that, more. The reward for running is more running. The reward of running is my heart beating strongly, my lungs opening to their fullest capacity, the tumult of sunrise birdsong in the summer, the deep dreamless sleep I fall into at night.
I run a half mile, walk a shy quarter back to my car; pull out water from the car, sit down, listen to music as I drink the liter I've brought with me. I drive home, greet the cats, hop into the shower that feels so good as the salt is washed from my skin. Dress in a pretty dress, have tea and breakfast, pack lunches for B and I, and then sit and read and wait for the rest to get up and be ready to go.
At work, Bryan parks at his building and I take off walking for my own. I'm wearing flip-flops, and after a couple of minutes of trying to walk in them I kick them off and proceed barefoot. It's faster going, and my feet tell me all about the fascinating things they're walking on; cold prickly asphalt, sun-warmed smooth concrete, a dirt bit that's surprisingly soft. Unaccustomed nerves fire, my feet waking.
It's the beginning of summer, and it was a fine way to spend the morning.
I reliably need about half an hour of half-awakeness before I can manage to face the prospect of being vertical, so I hit the snooze bar and roll over. The clock says it's 5:30, and for the moment, I believe it.
Half an hour later, the clock says 6 but it's really 5:15. Setting the clock later makes it easier to get out of bed; somehow, it's easier to face the world when the clock says 6 instead of 5. I get out of bed, stumble to the bathroom to the accompaniment of sleepy mrrrrts from Juniper, who's slept the night on my bed, and Selena, who came in when my alarm went off for snuggles and pets. This morning, about 4:15, Greebo caroled as the sun began to rise, wondering loudly why none of us were up yet. I've been half-awake ever since.
Pat down my hair, take my meds; I'm back in my bedroom now pulling on my running clothes. Downstairs, I pull Juniper and give Greebo and him treats. I'm still groggy, a bit cranky; I'm still adjusting to waking up earlier, and I'm currently running in a bit of sleep deprivation. But I go anyway.
Gather things--water bottle, iPod, waist pouch, keys. Out the door and into the car, where I see that it's 5:50. By 6, I'm parked and getting myself arranged for a run.
I'm going to go easy on myself today. My muscles ache, my eyes are bleary. Not a good morning to push myself, I decide. The point, right now, is that I'm out here doing this, not necessarily how far or fast I run. I didn't get a run in yesterday, because I had to go have fasting bloodwork done, and there is nothing more unpleasant than doing a run and coming back and not being able to have breakfast. I get very, very cranky when my blood sugar's low.
So I start out walking, hit the first mile marker, run a quarter mile. Walk the next quarter mile. Run again. The fog's beginning to clear. It's a brilliant Pacific Northwest summer morning, the day after the solstice, the light pouring through the trees like water. My favorite time of year here, and my favorite time of day during my favorite time of year. Everything is so, so green, and as I head into the wooded section of the trail, I am surrounded and swallowed by green.
Ahead, where sunlight puddles beneath a break in the trees, I see movement, and my head comes up. Thump-thump. A deer, wandered out on the trail, walking along the asphalt and nibbling at the foliage. A buck, I see, probably a young one from the horns. It stops, looks at me, flicks its ears.
A passing cyclist spooks it into the trees, and by the time I get to where it was, it's long gone. I run again. Another quarter mile down. My legs hurt, my knees hurt, but the thing that does not hurt is my upper back, and that in itself is a minor miracle after the past couple of weeks. There's still a knot between my shoulders, but that's an old friend and does not trouble me in the slightest.
Run, walk, run; I cross the bridge, reach the mile marker, turn around and cross it again. Familiar deep breaths, familiar pain in my legs, familiar sense of fatigue to push through. I can't stop just because I'm tired. For one thing, my car's a mile away now and I really want a shower before I go to work. For another thing, this gets better. Next week, I will be able to run more. The week after that, more. The reward for running is more running. The reward of running is my heart beating strongly, my lungs opening to their fullest capacity, the tumult of sunrise birdsong in the summer, the deep dreamless sleep I fall into at night.
I run a half mile, walk a shy quarter back to my car; pull out water from the car, sit down, listen to music as I drink the liter I've brought with me. I drive home, greet the cats, hop into the shower that feels so good as the salt is washed from my skin. Dress in a pretty dress, have tea and breakfast, pack lunches for B and I, and then sit and read and wait for the rest to get up and be ready to go.
At work, Bryan parks at his building and I take off walking for my own. I'm wearing flip-flops, and after a couple of minutes of trying to walk in them I kick them off and proceed barefoot. It's faster going, and my feet tell me all about the fascinating things they're walking on; cold prickly asphalt, sun-warmed smooth concrete, a dirt bit that's surprisingly soft. Unaccustomed nerves fire, my feet waking.
It's the beginning of summer, and it was a fine way to spend the morning.
