Blind Spot
- Details
- Published: Thursday, December 10, 2015 06:03 AM
- Written by Katie Tyson
The dark hilly roads of our neighborhood have long been exercising my body and exorcising my mind. Always at my trademark 0-dark hundred hours, and often at the expense of rest, personal safety, nagging joints or common sense, I head outside eager for the moment when I’ll hit my stride: my feet strike the macadam in a soothing rhythm that eventually lulls my brain into a restorative place akin to the REM sleep I’m missing.
My goal is to be back just as or before the first sliver of dawn lights the horizon. The only companions I desire are the moon and stars. I relish the darkness and solitude of the predawn hours: the run itself is illuminating, often shedding light onto problems or difficulties at hand. Light from any other source – most often a passing car – is not only an intrusion, but often a hazard. Drivers whose headlights glint off of my reflective gear frequently flip on their high beams – perhaps to better see me, perhaps in a misguided effort to light my path. Whatever their intention, the presence of light temporarily obscures the adjustment my eyes have made to the dark. Blinded until they pass, kinesthetic senses must carry me safely over ruts and around obstacles no longer visible in the light, and deliver me safely back into the envelop of darkness.
One recent morning – the first of the holiday season and the last for Callen as a 5-year old – was poised for an excess of calories and emotion. A preemptive run was an especially good idea. And so I laced up my running shoes and readied myself for a pavement pounding. As I placed a gloved hand on the doorknob and silently petitioned the door and the dog to remain quiet, I heard it:
“M-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m.”
