I’m sitting here on my couch. It’s 6:15 am on a weekend morning. The place is dead quiet, the whole house still asleep. Steam plumes out of my cup of tea, which leans awkwardly on a not-so-flush log that serves as a side table. The crickets make music outside while the sun rises up beyond the tree line making sky purples turn pink. I feel acute pain in my right foot and a dull ache in my right hip. These are shitty reminders that my Ironman-training body is not Ironman-ready. All of this interlaced with long deep breaths.
The colorful collage of family photo’s hanging on the refrigerator catches my eye. I suddenly feel gratitude - for what I’ve got, what I have experienced. Oakley’s backpack, books and shoes dot the floor, a sprawl that surprisingly triggers a sense of joy (of having a son) rather than disgust (at the mess).
Okay, so I was aware. Or was I present. Is there a distinction to be made? Does one look inward while another outward?
My assessment of what happened? The hands on the clock moved, but time stood still. As if my mind had the power of slowing down time, harnessing tranquility, and creating a deeper, more profound stillness.
Time to try that again.