Tag: dog walk

Mornings, Magpies and Me

Some children are up at 6 a.m. full of beans, ready to play. They wake their bleary-eyed parents with laughter, chatter and joie de vivre. I was never one of these kids. I’ve been a night owl from the day I was born.

My mornings have always been hard. Getting out of bed is hard. Jumping in and out of the shower is hard. Facing breakfast is hard. Anything beyond a grunt is hard. The only thing that isn’t hard is taking the dog for her morning walk.

Although I bitterly resent it before I go, the moment I’m out in the park the day changes. I remind myself this is worth getting up for: the cool air on my face, the well-trodden track under my feet, and the dog cantering ahead like a racehorse.

By this time, I’m smiling and have found my voice. I even enjoy meeting fellow walkers and saying hello. Yet the 45 minutes before the walk have been hellishly difficult. Why can’t I just skip the moaning and groaning and get to the good bits straight away? I’ve read The Miracle Morning, and each time I go back to it, I get all fired up about embracing the new habits it suggests. My enthusiasm, however, wilts the next morning when I actually have to put those lofty ideals into practice.

I now leave my phone in the kitchen and set my alarm so I have to get out of bed to turn it off. Great in theory. In practice, I’ve been known to yell ‘Siri, stop!’ loud enough for my phone to obey. When that hasn’t worked, the rebel in me has simply waited out the alarm with the doona pulled over my head. I can be ridiculously obstinate about getting up.

I’ve tried Mel Robbins’ five-second rule, but if you’re not committed, you won’t do it. I understand the theory (I always understand the theory) and for a while, when I’m all enthusiastic, it works. But inevitably, I slip back into bad habits.

This morning, I set my alarm 15 minutes earlier than I needed to and another for the right time. It let me hurkle-durkle for a while, letting thoughts amble lazily through my mind. With enormous effort, I stumbled out of bed and into the shower. Only when the warm water trickles down my face do I truly wake up. Until then, I’m a zombie condemning everything that crosses my path to hell and damnation.

I’ve always admired people who wake up ready to face the day. The world seems built for morning people. Life would be so much easier if I fell into line. But today, I’ve had a small win. I was out the door 20 minutes earlier than usual, and it made a huge difference. The dog had a much longer walk and I wasn’t in a hurry to get back. So instead of rushing, I enjoyed the magpies warbling and spotted a kookaburra perched on the overhead wire. I’d have missed this beautiful kingfisher on any other day. If every morning started with a kookaburra, I might stop arguing with my alarm. Might.

Early winter

Frosty mornings have arrived, covering the grass in icy, white droplets. The dog’s breath turns to vapour as we make our way across the road to the park. I too can see my breath ahead of me and plunge my hands deep into my pockets. The cold nibbles at my ears and nose, but a down coat keeps the rest of my body warm.

 The dog doesn’t seem to feel the cold. She happily lies on this carpet of frost, frolicking and licking the icy dew. There’s a wild look in her eye and I know she is about to run in ever-widening circles, stretching her body fully with each stride. I watch as she performs her exercise routine with unashamed, abundant joy, and I can’t help but feel a vicarious sense of being fully alive. I admire her ability to be so present that nothing else matters to her at all.

These morning walks before work are now as important to me as they are to the dog. Some mornings, the park is shrouded in fog, and we venture into unfamiliar terrain, uncertain of what we may come across along the way. The trees become mysterious creatures with outstretched arms, ready to catch me should I stumble too close. These mornings I am transported into a fairy tale where inanimate objects take on human form in the distance, only to turn back into posts or small bushes when I come near. It never feels menacing, but laden with the promise of some adventure.

The black swan that had appeared one day on the billabong has continued its journey.  I wonder where they fly for winter. Only the ducks are left and a cormorant or two. Even the magpies seem quieter in the morning now, or am I imagining this? In any case, the park has taken on a different feel; it is quieter, and the colours are muted. The park is now in calm repose.

My day continues with work hours, obligations, and errands. By late afternoon, I feel the urge to visit again before the light fades completely. I take the dog for her second walk of the day, this time with greater urgency and less time to reflect. Despite my desire to be there, the walk becomes perfunctory. I’m thinking about cooking dinner and jobs that still need to be done before the day is out. Other people in the park seem harried too. Everyone wants a bit more time outside before the light fades completely.

Back home, I can just make out the outline of the canopies. Soon, the inky black sky will blanket the city. The day, with all its cares, is over. A brand-new walk awaits us in the morning.