In the present moment

I went walking today. This is nothing unusual, especially for someone who is medically required to exercise if he doesn't want nasty things to happen to him. Again. I have a favorite walking trail two miles from my workplace, and it makes a nice break in the day to get away from work, and put myself in the midst of trees, water and sky. I liked to do this before my forced vacation, so, again, nothing unusual there.

What made today different is I noticed noticing things. The past two days, I stepped down onto the gravel track, and been met with the warm, moist smells of the vegetation; no doubt pounded into the air by the sun. I have been struck by plants I have walked by hundreds of times, yet am only now seeing. And I was very surprised today to learn just how much I enjoy tramping through the heat. It is, in a way, cathartic to feel the way my body responds to what are, frankly, dangerous levels of sun and humidity. I find myself responding to it the same way I do a hot bath, or a sauna. It was tiring, and a little draining. But I find I am beginning to enjoy exercise. Just a little.

On my commutes back and forth to work, I find myself seeing trees and plants that I have gone past before — in this case thousands of times — only now, I see them. Now, I care that they're there. The other day at choir, I had to take a moment, leave my seat, and walk down to a place where I could see the light playing through the stained glass windows. Just a minute ago, I finished off a long day at work by coming home and winding up on my knees in front of my trailer, helping my wife plant purple Iris bulbs. We were frantically digging in hard clay, trying to beat the storm clouds before they drenched us. It was hard work, more than a little tiring, and I loved every moment of it. Well, maybe not the part where the dogs kept trying to lay in the holes on top of the Irises so we'd pet them, but it didn't matter — I was gardening. I was finally unleashing my inner hobbit. Or, at least, a part of him I didn't give vent to in college.

The point of all this is that I seem to find myself alive these days. The Buddhists, who I admire a great deal, might call this condition awake. Mind you, I don't think I'm truly awake, by Buddhist standards. After all, I just powered through three southwest chicken tornados, seven cheese pizza roles and a grape popsicle I barely noticed — not a very mindful way of eating. But I suppose it's a start.