It’s inevitably the case that I can rise and get myself going much better on the first few days of the week, and greet the day, just as the sun is rising and the crispness of the morning provides all the confirmation anyone needed that fall is here.
As I run along the canal, I chase the fog, always visible out in the distance, yet elusive once I near it. Still, it lingers over the waters, enchanting, haunting, tempting.
So I keep on, hoping to glimpse the heron take to flight like I did last week, its majestic wings flapping with exquisite rhythm. Or stumble on the sun’s rays peeking through the towering, thin trees onto the dewy ground across the waters.
And I feel gracious for those moments, when I am alone with my thoughts, but hardly alone with all the birds, the animals of the forest, the life sprouting and fading in my midst. I feel wild, too– free, and strong, if only for a moment.
And it is good.