In summer, you either get into the water or you don't. You can start anything and there's enough room to remake yourself amidst the tall grasses, wild flowers, the industrious and manifold birds.
Sure, any day, all year, possibility is present, and I like to believe in that as much as the next person, or the person beside them, but if it's July 1 and you're not hustling in the service of some new regimen, embracing some novel perspective, or challenging yourself to break out of assumptions and into the far broader meadow of meaning, well, then. That's your business.
But it's well and truly summertime, and I am jogging. Or, I've gone jogging three times.
I've also decided I'll try not to think the worst of people, alive and dead, beloved and less-admired.
I know I'll stumble, ache, grouse, and piss and moan. But the alternative --carrying on along the concrete walk, making all the right turns, never getting wet, never brushing against the seaweed, never spotting water-snakes, or getting a wave in the mouth, never panting, sweating, pounding the ground, not challenging routine or conditional thought, and never picking up and holding a mirror to complacency - is depressing, disheartening, terrifying.
I must keep this handy.
