london times

the morning is different. it’s quiet. and still.

roosters aren’t waking the villagers. women aren’t sweeping the dirt.

the air is sharp and cold.  

the thin, foggy blanket hovering above the frozen ground is disturbed only by the horses’ running feet as they traverse the waking hillside.

the green is dull.  and even the air is frozen.

my morning run is different.  it’s cold. 

i’m not dodging potholes and motorcycles.

i’m passing cathedrals.  and old men in galoshes.  and the royal mailman on foot. quaint cottages and stone gates. and stone age burial sites.

cattle grids begin every driveway.  and every cottage is named. 

stone houses with thatched roofs.  public footpaths with iron gates.

i should like to live here.

i should like to live anywhere. and everywhere.

i could, you know.

i could.

but i feel the discomfort of discontent creeping in.
and my thoughts are elsewhere.

dreaming.

of a life that’s not here.

but i’m missing out.

missing out on the wonder that is here.

the wonder that’s in my body when it moves with grace across the floor of an old dance studio.  

the wonder that’s in my hair when the glistening snow falls quietly on my head.

i’m missing out. 

missing out because i’m not opening my eyes.

so try it.

open your eyes.

the wonder is here.

you only have to see it.