Fourteen weeks of daily early-morning running: suddenly it sounds ridiculous — about as ridiculous as publishing daily blog entries — as if I really have that much to say, or there’s that much that truly needs to be said, and which might not be better and more fully expressed by silence — or by walking across the street and shaking my neighbor’s hand for no special reason, other than the pleasantly puzzled look of surprise it might bring.
This morning at about five, we heard a barred owl calling from somewhere nearby in front of the house. It might have been in our cedar, or in the cedar across the street. It hooted four or five times, then was silent. Like me.
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Categories: The Art of Being
Tags: Cedars, Neighbors, Owls, Publishing, Running, Silence, Writing
William Michaelian 