. . . . or why I don't exercise in the morning.
Morning is the quiet time, the time before the world wakes up,
before I wake up.
It's the bewitching time of my soul,
when I'm transported ever deeper in peace.
A time that feeds my mind and quickens reflection.
A time for birds and light breezes.
A time for natural stillness, when one has absolutely no desire to move
but every desire to be aware.
A time for thoughts to run, from the grocery list to 'why creation?'
Surely, the bliss of nothing should have been sufficient.
Big Bang versus particles floating in a cosmic soup of vibrating energy.
I know which one I would have chosen.
Morning is a time of listening.
To birds, seen and unseen.
To backyard fountains.
To distant garbage trucks taking away the excess of our lives.
To rustling leaves assuring us of
a small bit of respite in the growing heat of summer.
It's also a time of noticing.
The hypnotic reflections of my neighbor's pool.
Blossoms slowly uncurling.
Lizards darting and stopping.
Snails going from here to there for some incomprehensible reason
at an incomprehensible pace.
The joys of suburban living are many and profound.
If a life of vibrating in the cosmic void isn't possible then this will do.
Yes, this suburban life will do very nicely.
