Morning Glory
There is something serenely beautiful about a Monday in the wee hours of the morning in New York City. It’s about the only chance you’re going to get to stroll at a country pace across the expanse of 5th Avenue (diagonally) and never once dodge a car, or a person.
Today, I take advantage of the privilege when, arriving entirely too early for work, I decide to go for a good, brisk walk before sitting down at the office to start my day. It is the second day of June. It is a new month at the cusp of summer. It is still chilly, maybe 60 degrees in the shade. I think: “This should be invigorating!” The sun is out, shining down as best it could, between soaring structural giants that make up our City. I take deep breaths, inhaling as I was taught to at Yoga, to fill to capacity my lungs to circulate oxygen more freely throughout. And as I do so, I feel myself fill with life and energy. I pick up the pace and take wider strides, as much as my short little legs will allow.
When it’s quiet like this, you have one of the few chances you’re going to get in a day to really catch sight of what surrounds you. Suddenly stores you never knew were there are revealing themselves to you as they look before the chaotic flock of city dwellers hits the streets. I glance at a fruit and deli market where the young immigrant boy is hastily setting up the fruits and flower bouquets, spraying all with water to offset the expected heat of the incoming day. He wears a dark green Yankees’ baseball cap and a pea green T-shirt that has the image of the Virgin de Guadalupe on its back. When I pass, taking in all the pretty flowers, I smile. He glances at me quickly, and then looks down again to conceal his eyes. He is used to looking down. It’s his day-to-day existence to be a part of the fabric and go unnoticed and not to be a button and stand out proudly.
On the corner, a street vendor is just unhitching his stainless steel cart from its mode of transport and setting up shop. Soon he will begin his daily task of peeling onions, cutting up meats and other vegetables and heating up the grill so that, by lunch time, his line of loyal customers will be able to grab a handheld lunch on the run. His ambulatory kitchen is a haven where he knows his way around. It is his livelihood, where he makes the money that sustains him and whomever else depends on him. To this vendor, it is everything that matters.
After a few blocks of striding, I am actually breaking a sweat. It’s a good feeling, though. I feel free and happy and full of health and life. I want to bottle up the feeling, so I can take a drink of it when I am not feeling as great as I do right now. I welcome this moment like a gift on Christmas morning.
I stop at Dunkin Donuts where the lines have not yet formed out the door and where I can find familiarity in the products, even as I continue scoping out the novelty of newfound locations. It would have been my morning hot cup of java, but as I am starting to feel the heat settle into the streets, I decide an ice coffee is the way to go.
When I leave Dunkin Donuts, I notice more folks on the street and some yellow cabs cruising along, though not yet speeding recklessly, switching lanes and liable to kill someone. Even they are still waking slowly from the weekend slumber. I check the time and see that it will be 8:00 soon, so I pick up my pace and start to head back.
On the following street, beneath me, a subway arrives. I know this because in the following minute, at the opening in the earth, a mass of people pour up and outwards of the underground world. With a sigh I realize that my alone time has expired. My morning of quiet admiration for my City is coming to a close. For in a few minutes, all of the openings in the earth around the entire City will pour out the same ingredient and fill up the streets with working people.
This week has officially begun. This Monday has started the way so many before it. The masses seek out their buildings, their offices, their storefronts, their restaurants, their street corners, their subway spots, their delis, their cubicles, and their stand-alone seats. Like a beautifully played concerto, we gather once again feeling the weight of responsibility to be inclusive in a society. We are participants and we are observers. Mostly, we are robotic. We will do this day after day, week after week, month after month and year after year. Sometimes we will feel despair. Sometimes we will accomplish something. Sometimes we will feel anger and sometimes utter joy. Mostly we will feel grateful to have this existence because it gives us an identity and a purpose.
I reach my building. It appears in front of me as I am thinking. A sense of belonging envelops me. I pull the heavy glass door and enter. I smile.
Today, I take advantage of the privilege when, arriving entirely too early for work, I decide to go for a good, brisk walk before sitting down at the office to start my day. It is the second day of June. It is a new month at the cusp of summer. It is still chilly, maybe 60 degrees in the shade. I think: “This should be invigorating!” The sun is out, shining down as best it could, between soaring structural giants that make up our City. I take deep breaths, inhaling as I was taught to at Yoga, to fill to capacity my lungs to circulate oxygen more freely throughout. And as I do so, I feel myself fill with life and energy. I pick up the pace and take wider strides, as much as my short little legs will allow.
When it’s quiet like this, you have one of the few chances you’re going to get in a day to really catch sight of what surrounds you. Suddenly stores you never knew were there are revealing themselves to you as they look before the chaotic flock of city dwellers hits the streets. I glance at a fruit and deli market where the young immigrant boy is hastily setting up the fruits and flower bouquets, spraying all with water to offset the expected heat of the incoming day. He wears a dark green Yankees’ baseball cap and a pea green T-shirt that has the image of the Virgin de Guadalupe on its back. When I pass, taking in all the pretty flowers, I smile. He glances at me quickly, and then looks down again to conceal his eyes. He is used to looking down. It’s his day-to-day existence to be a part of the fabric and go unnoticed and not to be a button and stand out proudly.
On the corner, a street vendor is just unhitching his stainless steel cart from its mode of transport and setting up shop. Soon he will begin his daily task of peeling onions, cutting up meats and other vegetables and heating up the grill so that, by lunch time, his line of loyal customers will be able to grab a handheld lunch on the run. His ambulatory kitchen is a haven where he knows his way around. It is his livelihood, where he makes the money that sustains him and whomever else depends on him. To this vendor, it is everything that matters.
After a few blocks of striding, I am actually breaking a sweat. It’s a good feeling, though. I feel free and happy and full of health and life. I want to bottle up the feeling, so I can take a drink of it when I am not feeling as great as I do right now. I welcome this moment like a gift on Christmas morning.
I stop at Dunkin Donuts where the lines have not yet formed out the door and where I can find familiarity in the products, even as I continue scoping out the novelty of newfound locations. It would have been my morning hot cup of java, but as I am starting to feel the heat settle into the streets, I decide an ice coffee is the way to go.
When I leave Dunkin Donuts, I notice more folks on the street and some yellow cabs cruising along, though not yet speeding recklessly, switching lanes and liable to kill someone. Even they are still waking slowly from the weekend slumber. I check the time and see that it will be 8:00 soon, so I pick up my pace and start to head back.
On the following street, beneath me, a subway arrives. I know this because in the following minute, at the opening in the earth, a mass of people pour up and outwards of the underground world. With a sigh I realize that my alone time has expired. My morning of quiet admiration for my City is coming to a close. For in a few minutes, all of the openings in the earth around the entire City will pour out the same ingredient and fill up the streets with working people.
This week has officially begun. This Monday has started the way so many before it. The masses seek out their buildings, their offices, their storefronts, their restaurants, their street corners, their subway spots, their delis, their cubicles, and their stand-alone seats. Like a beautifully played concerto, we gather once again feeling the weight of responsibility to be inclusive in a society. We are participants and we are observers. Mostly, we are robotic. We will do this day after day, week after week, month after month and year after year. Sometimes we will feel despair. Sometimes we will accomplish something. Sometimes we will feel anger and sometimes utter joy. Mostly we will feel grateful to have this existence because it gives us an identity and a purpose.
I reach my building. It appears in front of me as I am thinking. A sense of belonging envelops me. I pull the heavy glass door and enter. I smile.
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