It’s called waking up

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Bad news: my car is sick.
Good news: the garage is within jogging distance. So after dropping it off at half seven this morning I got the chance to jog back home along the Railway Walk - a leafy corridor chugging along behind housing estates, factories, and under the stuttering stop-go lanes of the M1.

What a treat it was to be reminded how the world looks and smells early in the morning, before traffic smells dull its sharpness and our own busy-ness descends like a veil to cut us off from what is all around.

The ripe scent of honeysuckle tangled amongst the trees and shrubs. A pair of bright blackbirds hopping away from me, as light as their own feathers. Splatters of pigeon poo decorating the leaves of nettle beds. Miniature scaredolls watching me from the top of their bamboo sticks in the allotments.

Even a passing cyclist left behind a delicate scent of shower gel, shampoo and clean skin.

For some distance I followed a dog walker. His head was bent over a phone the whole time. He noticed none of it I assume, since my puffing appearance seemed to shock him.

How many mornings is that me? Making to do lists in my head the moment I wake up. Running through the conversations I need to have. Snapping on the chattering radio which drowns out the birdsong in my garden. Working out what I’ll do when.  Firing up the laptop to check emails and see on Facebook and Twitter what everyone I know is saying, doing and thinking about.

How many mornings is it you?

This morning on Facebook, before I headed out to the garage, I saw one friend had posted a picture of a journal she’s bought. The front cover reads ‘Let’s Go On An Adventure’.
Beneath it another friend wrote: “It’s called waking up every morning.”

I just have.

Posted by Jane Matthews on 07/26 at 07:13 AM
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