It’s a beautiful day, indeed. This morning I watched the houses across the cove glowing slightly golden in the sunrise as the sky grew bluer, the lake truly smooth as glass although it sounds trite; my soul as smooth and calm as the lake’s surface.
This is the day I’ve struggled toward these past few months, a morning when Brain has decided to quit stomping on the ICK button it’s been stuck on for so long, a day for silent contemplation of the sound of the birds as they flit back and forth, for looking closely at the soft fuzzy buds on the dogwood, for soft, slow, deep, calm breaths.
In the dark night I felt Chunker curled up in the curve of my neck and shoulder, something she did always as a kitten but then stopped. I don’t know why, perhaps to roam, as she grew into a cat and became more nocturnal. I reached my hand to her fur, so incredibly soft, the softest cat I’ve ever had. She stretched her paw to my hand and purred and I drifted calmly to sleep.
It’s easiest, of course, when I can keep it simple but, like most, I seldom do. Or can. But I can continue to strive.
Sometimes as I struggled to find a solution to this pain I wondered – more frequently than sometimes, actually – often I worried that I was simply a wimp, that others hurt just as much but don’t show it, they are stronger somehow, they feel pain but don’t succumb as I did.
Perhaps that’s part of my peace this morning. I’m going to try running ten (very easy, slow) miles with Becky this morning. I think I can do this. As I was setting out my bottle, charging my Garmin, and eating my breakfast my mind lingered only on the thought of taking it slow and getting it done, and I realized I had not thought once of how much it would hurt.