Cloud Catching the Rising Sun
I woke around 4:30AM, and decided to use the quiet time to go on a quick hike through the huge, forested park a few blocks from my apartment building. It's called Forest Park, and contains a 30-mile long hiking trail, which I hiked for a few miles this morning. The quiet of the morning is in such contrast to the chaos and frenetic activity that begins as everyone plunges into their day. I walk up a street that goes upwards, crossing a bridge from which I observe Mt. St. Helens, almost mystic in shrouded predawn majesty, reminding me of a mountain looming over a zen buddhist monastery.
The large houses in this exlusive neighborhood are quiet and unlit, for the most part. I go on and climb the stairway that leads to the upper street, Aspen, and the entrance to the upper part of the park. I set off down the Wildwood Trail, shirt off, feeling the morning. I was absolutely alone and fantazised about emerging from the park to find the rest of the world gone. The trees and shrubs, the ferns and saplings are still partially shrouded in darkness.
The sky grows lighter and lighter to the east. I am enjoying the physicality of the morning, the body sense of beinbg almost naked, the smooth movement of my legs, the wonderful smells of the forest in the morning.
I feel like this is what prayer and worship really should be, an immersion of the senses in the reality of the world. I reluctantly take a side trail that leads back down to the street that leads to the street that will take me home. I pause for a moment and imagine leaving my t-shirt and running shorts behind on a bush and hiking the full 30-mile length of the trail. I refrain and head back to coffee, burritos and orange for breakfast.
The world, or at least Portland, is still there. More people are starting to stir. I imagine I can enter their dreams and be a mysterious presence just at the edge of dream. But now it is time to prepare for work--after doing the real work, the writing of the novel This morning was what a morning should be.