Sunday

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It is Sunday.

The day started with a 7 a.m. run that was preceded by a run-in with another early-bird neighbor.

I cheered to Dale my 6:45 "good morning!", to which he smiled widely.

I knew then, as I watched the humorous grin widen across his face that I had yelled too loudly the greeting, unwittingly, over the sound of my iPod that was set to some dance shuffle.

It was early. 

There was a remnant cool air leftover from the desert's nightly rendezvous with grey clouds and a tease of a summer storm that was never realized.

Despite the world sleeping in, leaving Dale and I alone on Blackberry Drive, I was enthusiastic.

I felt the energy and inspiration that I usually reserve for a late night jog through the park envelop me as I warmed my muscles for an unchartered trek through our neighborhood.

At one point I found myself quite far- in one of the distant reaches I knew my husband wouldn't approve of.

It was the desolate area where blight had taken over.  It was the area where the sidewalk ends and weeds creep between the cracks of the earth left unkempt and uncared for too long. It was the place that intuition tells you to move away from, quickly, purposefully.

I hadn't intended to go so far, so as the clean pavement left me for a new, unfamiliar and eerily intrusive landscape I knew I had to turn around to find a new path.

I had to pay attention.

Because I have a negligent habit of forgetting where I am headed when I run.

I am irresponsible as I miss seeing the world go by at times, oblivious to everyone and everything that passes near me.

I get lost somehow.

If I don't make a deliberate plan to pay attention I could find myself out for 2 hours without any sense that it matters to anyone but me.

But it is only in these early mornings that you can feel the air that is heavier than any other time of day.

It is the only time you can catch a glimpse of the hot air balloons that enchant lovers and friends over the nearby winery landscapes, like UFOs for those unfamiliar with this Southern California area.



It is the only time when no one in my household notices I am gone longer than I said I would be...

It is in the rare hours where the awakening of the day is like a shared secret between Heaven and Earth- one witnessed by the few who can maneuver their contorted and content warm bodies out of dimly lit bedrooms- to bear sight to something that will not be exactly as it is on this day, ever again...

It is beautiful.

It is Sunday.

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