Central Park Morning

I found myself walking through the southern tip of Central Park at 6 am. There were the aging mounds of grayed ice, even ice still on the little pond, but also water diving over the falls because of the rain. I saw the snowdrops dangling over periwinkle in dim light. The rain had begun to fall, but ever so lightly. I stopped to admire the belgian block curbs being installed, heard the schiff schiff schiff of foot dragging joggers and the roar and clang of  haulers. It was too early for breakfast, even though I had thoughts of a diner and a paper. I headed off to Columbus Circle, no bike peddlers, no tourists, not even commuters. The Starbucks had every seat available and only two people on line (as we NYers say). I picked up a banana and a coffee at the deli and a bran muffin at the cart, then moved on to work, where the building had just opened, lights still out.

I am not a morning person, making all the more powerful the experience of being out at an early hour. I would like to be a morning person, as that time, if out of the house, or even in it, can be a time of such great movement, things happen, early. Things just happen. But it takes discipline, to turn out the lights, remove ourselves from the glow of the monitor, at an hour conducive to rising early. But now that I am 41, just two days ago, I do begin to believe that it does make a man healthy and wise, if not wealthy. Imagine working 7 to 3, home by 4, dinner by 6 instead of home at 8, dinner by 9. That is the arc of our urban day, and I can't imagine it being easy to shed, but possible.