I've enjoyed my blogging holiday, an opportunity to step away from the virtual lectern and just give it a rest. An honest teacher must confess, there comes a time (typically early in May, if not sooner) when even he has had enough of his own voice and can't or won't profess another word.
And then comes a time, later in May, when pleasant disengagement begins threatening to become slothful inanition. If he's not soon commencing summer school or some other formal and remunerative scholarly commitment, that's when the sabbatical ends.
But this sabbatical has returned me to an earlier routine that will now be ritual. Still rising at dawn, give or take the first few moments of earliest light, I've been grabbing my coffee mug and heading straight past cat and keyboard and out the door. Greeting Aurora wordlessly on her turf, first thing each day, the dogs and I have been luxuriating in longer and earlier morning rambles. We like this new pattern. We're sticking to it.
Returning to the keyboard, then, will mean reporting to this journal a little later in the day. Morning is still more a state of mind than a clock-time, and its verbal progeny can be committed to electrons whenever "I'm awake and there's a dawn in me."
I'm inspired again by Richard Powers, whose protagonist in Orfeo finally learned his "greatest art": to "walk two hours before the neighborhood woke. Moving his legs left him blissful."