Sunday, July 18, 2010

7 a.m.



There is not much to say about my morning walks.  The most challenging part is to simply get out of bed.  Once that is overcome, momentum sets in, and misted with a veil of Deep Woods Off, I step into the gentle morning light.  

No matter how scorching hot the day will become, the morning is kinder.  Truly the earth awakens each day as we do, less bold, saving its assertive and overbearing behavior for later.  The flowers take a tentative peek to the east, and luxuriously begin to stretch out their petals, taking their time in awakening.  The frogs and birds didn't seem to need an alarm to awaken, and there is nothing languid about their approach to the a.m.  Their voices compete for attention, their agendas seem full and frantic; really, it is a wonder they haven't awakened every last slumbering mind in the neighborhood.

The sun is my first cup of morning coffee. The fog clears, and my heart beats in synchronicity with my footfalls.

Good morning God.  Thank you for this gift.  This ordinaryness that I seldom slow down to look at: every towering cloud, the far horizon, the circling swallow, the glisten of dew.  Lord, don't ever let me take this for granted, don't let me stop being mindful of how You surround us.

Mingled with the fragrance of morning flowers, the new mown grass, and the morning damp, my prayers go up.  The friend whose child died, the marriage that needs to be healed, the young mom at church with breast cancer, soldiers far from home.  Peace, protection, health, heart-healing - oh my, it is so much sometimes.  Problems bigger than me that seem to lighten as they lift up in the placid dawn air.

I always stop to be still a few minutes after I return home.  The deep, dreamy conversation that was my walk is as hard to transition out of as sleep itself was earlier.  The list of tasks to be done shows up at the doorstep of my mind unbidden.  The day awaits; it won't be turned away.  It asserts its impatience, and reminds me that there isn't much to say about my morning walks anyway.

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