Sometimes, in later life, the simplest activities bring the most pleasure. An early morning walk on a crisp fall Sunday, for example, delivers satisfactions for both body and soul.
I pass through my front gate just after seven, the only householder to be up and out. All the neighbors are still sleeping, it seems, their cars keeping vigil for them on the street. On one bumper, scrunched together, several weighty slogans catch my eye: “Stay Human.” “Question Assumptions.” “Save Tibet.”
The first hours of the new day have a clarity about them unique to 7 A.M in early October. As I walk, the sun’s rays slant across the streetscapes, illuminating everything in sight. Each object emerges sharp in the light, with borders clearly etched. Subtle shadows shade parts of buildings, providing a delicious chiaroscuro in black and white.
The color blue holds total command of the sky, the way it will almost surely not by afternoon. No clouds yet dare spoil the splendor of the world above, a purity I want to hold on to.
Morning has broken, as the folk singer once called Cat Stevens used to sing. The world does indeed look like a new creation, fresh from the Creator’s hand. Even things made by humans look renewed in this hour.
As I follow my accustomed path through parts of the neighboring university, its structures stand out eloquently. Two rhinos, formidably sculptured in tarnished bronze, stand stolidly at the entrance to the biological labs.
The multi-storied psychology building, soars in white stone far above my head, a temple to pure reason. The museums that I pass mix light and dark in unaccustomed formulas. Off to my right, the slender spire of the college church, sparkling white, reaches for the sky.
As well as sights, my route offers delicious sounds. Not yet ready for songs, the birds chirp to one another and, perhaps, to me. They almost have the field to themselves, the usual noisemakers – cars – being few at this early hour.
Nor does human chatter distract me since few people have yet appeared, no cell phones either. And, thank heaven, no one drives by with his car radio blaring rap.
Passersby, if any show up, may greet me now more than at other times. We walkers are few enough to appreciate the wonder of other human beings’ existence. It’s almost as if we were alone in the big world and free to be amazed that additional persons also inhabit this place.
Students nearby in their thousands will sleep for hours more, with no regrets for missing the best part of the day. Instead they have cheerfully reversed the order of nature, turning day into night and night into day. When they greet one another with the words “What’s up?” as they invariably do, the answer must be: “Not me, at this hour.”
I relish the silence and feel grateful for interior space and reflection. Musing about the week, I cherish the hospitality of former colleagues, two nights before. Also thoughts about faith from Anne Lamott, a quirky author newly discovered, amuse and inspire me. And columnist Tom Friedman’s views of America’s future stir me to wondering where we are heading as a nation.
But thinking takes second place to feeling. Now is a time to swing one’s arms, as I do, and set a brisk pace. Inner peace, punctuated by moments of elation, powers my walk. Sunday is my favorite day of the week, the day when I practice leisure.
Rabbi Abraham Heschel was right in finding the beauty of the Sabbath precious, and Huston Smith in lamenting its loss in the modern world.
I look forward to worship at the end of my walk. Then I will join with others, old and young, in rites familiar to me since childhood. Reciting the ancient texts will bring to my spirit the peace and joy stirred up by sacred words and mystical thoughts.
Even when the liturgy feels perfunctory, as it will today, and the celebrant’s style casual, even slapdash, I will have started the day right. Though this preacher knows no more than I when or how his sermon will end, God will have provided.
This day will bring further welcome events. Another meeting with members of the faith community, this time over coffee and cake; my weekly softball game with its never-failing joy of friendly competition ; a televised slice of the Patriots’ game from Miami; a reception for fellow writers who have published new books this past year; and a delicious dinner with family members.
The walk indeed turns out to have been the start of a fine day. Typical of Sundays spent in my 75th year to heaven, this one may not have had everything but it had a whole lot. The beauty of the world, physical and spiritual exercise, community, family – is it the passage of years that makes these goods feel more precious than ever before?
Richard Griffin