From inside the confines of the library I'm remembering my bike ride. This morning I got three quarters of the way to where I was going and I wanted to keep riding. The sun was at a level with the rest of the world that made everything shine a glowing golden. The air was brisk and chilled, but like a cold drink on a hot day, it felt wonderful. All of the stoplights turned at the right moment and the traffic seemed to like that I was there, "a surmountable challenge to the drive", I'd like to believe they thought.
I didn't think this morning would be this way. My head ached too much from yesterday. Yesterday I slept in way too late, the kind of sleep-in that leaves your head exhausted and sore, and I believe that's what gave me a headache throughout the rest of the day. Oh, it was stemmed by that three o'clock in the afternoon coffee, but I've read that even that won't take care of it. This morning I highly encouraged myself to get up and keep moving, since this is what did me in yesterday. And so far it's been working. My headache is seemingly gone. But my body is incredibly sore.
What is it with the balance and routines of our lives. They seemed inextricably placed amongst the pull of the tide, the drag of the current. How do we know what moment to move, to get up, to find our selves full and whole at the end of another day. What instinct is this?
My breath was drawn relatively easy this morning. It tasted so wonderful. Air cooked by the rays of the rising sun. If I could have it every morning I would, wouldn't I? Even oatmeal gets old after a while, after having it everyday. But its good for mornings like these, when even a bowl of oatmeal can be so simple and enjoyable compared to the pounding of yesterday's melee.
It's the simple miracles that make me so glad to be free, so grateful to read, and so difficult to keep.
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