This morning I find myself yet again at a beach, seated with my legs crossed in the sand. I’m awaiting a 5:34 sunrise. Plagued by some first-night-of-vacation insomnia, last night’s sleep was like a silent TABATA workout. But instead of Robin yanking me from interval to interval pleather disco leggings blinding me from afar, I found myself prompted in and out of consciousness by my own thoughts. The new sounds and lights and bed and place didn’t help, but it seems I’m sorting through some stuff. Evidently my brain doesn’t adhere to a 9-5 schedule, shocking.
The grogginess from my sleep sprints has fascinating/terrifying effects on my thoughts in general. So, it should be an interesting day of mindful subconscious folding and unfolding. I’m not even sure to what end said involuntary inventorying of the mind is heading towards, or if there is one at all. I assume it’s like when you set your oven to clean mode and come home to a carcinogenically clean smell and cleanish appliance… you guess it worked? Feel free to use this metaphor figuratively or literally, I’m caught somewhere in between. But really. Is there some sort of aha moment when you realize you’ve reached the mental promised land? Does yoga have to be involved? Or, god forbid, meditation?
With sunrise yoga and meditation never on the menu for me, today I’m trying a sunrise thought-dump into a note my phone. It’s 5:25 am and mostly I’m underwhelmed by today’s sunrise (very Chernobyl-esque colors happening, deadish purple with a seemingly radioactive glow) and worried about how – what appears to be a land breeze – will affect the green head flies’ flight pattern and thus, bite pattern, today. I must say, however, the water is absolutely stunning.
Large, even waves break into a steady foaming roar at the water’s edge. The ocean is a light green, almost jade color that changes to navy when the Chernobyl light isn’t directly upon its face. Past the sharp line of cresting waves, a shy ocean sits quietly stretching into the disappearing horizon. The surface reminds me of a Cole Haan saddle bag I loved that has since broken. Its worn pebbled leather had been smoothed by years of valiant labor, the things that bag has seen. The sea’s tranquil top boasts a similar texture and belies the tide movement below.
It’s 5:31 am. Dawn has transformed into morning, and more sunrise seekers have descended on the beach. I’m happy to report none of whom are doing yoga or organized meditating of any kind. Not that I would hate it, I would – however – move far away from any chanting or group performative exercise. The purple clouds at the horizon remain but seem to have splintered towards the sky above, the sharp pieces pointing away from the rising sun. As the jagged clumps drift lazily upwards they remind me of trees on the Serengeti. Though the sun remains hidden, its hazy glow ignites the drifting oasis from below.
The pink hue grows stronger behind the purple horizon, it’s clear our sunrise will be delayed. As an aside, I’ve confirmed the biting flies are out right now, an unwelcome fact that may impact the day’s sun worshipping/tanning plans.
Ah! There she is. The sun is as pink as pink can be, burning through the purple remnants of night. Honestly, I feel a little bad about doubting her glory just minutes earlier. I just wish I could get closer. Whether this yearning is borne from a desire to personally get a better look or the fact that the zoom on my iPhone blurs the details of the sun/cloud show… I’m not sure. That’s a conundrum for a different day. A different sunrise.
Writing and watching and swatting flies and minding the Hudson-sized seagulls that seem to think I have a bag of Fritos (I wish) is proving to be quite a task. No wonder the zen do yoga instead. Luckily the Chernobyl clouds refuse to move, and their stubbornness draws out my sunrise this morning like a slow Hollywood death. I look up after finishing the previous sentence and the darkness is stark. The sun’s rising is less climactic than I anticipated, her slow and steady advance to the sky interrupted by retreats to the purple haze. At times only the changing pastel hues that fluctuate between bright orange and neon signal her continuing climb.
Finally, A half-moon sliver of neon pops into view. The brightness snaps my head in the sun’s direction, but the intensity burns my eyes. Jesus it’s bright. Like eye damagingly bright. Is this the point at which one isn’t supposed to stare directly at the sun? Closing my eyes I see flashing spots fill the place where the sun was in my view. Looking towards the water, the pebbled leather of the sea now looks like it’s been left in the rain as the neon spots dot its surface. As I scan to the left the splotches shaped by the half visible sun follow. Resting my gaze on the dunes, the dots make the organized plateaus of plant and sand appear riddled with small fires. My stomach rumbles, briefly distracting from my visual impairment, and I think of the watching seagulls, I could use a Frito right about now.
Blinking removes my new sunrise filter somewhat but not completely, so I try closing my eyes for a bit. The outline of my nose appears to glow in the darkened world of my eyelids. When I open them the sun has emerged from the horizon, the clouds, and water completely. The oranges and yellows fade out uniformly in elliptical rays with each millimeter she climbs. As the seconds pass, so too does the barge-like cloud underneath, ultimately vanishing into blue sky. A final act for a character so misunderstood in this morning’s production.
And like a high school set change between acts, it’s a new scene and a new day. I guess I’ll save my languishing mindfulness for another time. Or maybe there’s a delay in the benefits sunrise exposure has on its audience. Or, alas, it’s all a waste without yoga.
And with that, it’s time for a jog in my absolute favorite place to run… Long Beach Island. The miles I’ve logged on this brief piece of land… I’m thankful for each one and elated to be back. I can feel myself from another time in this place. Or maybe it’s just me, without the baggage of the years since my last run here. Regardless, the feeling makes waves in my soul, similar sharp crests worn into my psyche long ago match the pace of the island. Home, I think, this is home. I close my eyes before departing and see the morning outlined in technicolor, a print of the past and right now, glowing in oranges and pinks. My own personal Warhol. I take it with me.
The Dog Hair Diaries 