I keep seeing myself in the center of the lake. On a still day, and everywhere is blue and quiet – except for where I am waving my arms about, thrashing my legs against imagined, deep threats complaining about the turbulent water. This is my morning meditation as my mind … Continue Reading February 6th, 2019
How the days bump into each other in these dark months. I experience a touch of concern each morning when I try to grasp the day of the week, the day’s plans. Is this normal? The asphalt safe when it glitters under the street lamps. And unpredictable when it is … Continue Reading January 26th, 2019
Maybe the moon and the stars want to take us by surprise. It’s that simple. I broke my own rules this morning to read the news headlines, and to learn what the scientists can predict. Posted at ten thirty p.m.: Tomorrow morning will bring the chance of a lifetime. So … Continue Reading January 21st, 2019
I haven’t run in 5 days. Last Monday I felt flat, and I felt the fear rise. The last time I felt this lifeless just 2 kilometers into a run, I had a blood clot in my pelvis and spent two weeks in the hospital. I couldn’t get to sleep … Continue Reading January 20th, 2019
PDF: CV Ren Powell des2018 komplett
The world is never, really quiet. There are waves in the darkness that beat a rhythm through our very cells.
An electric light at dawn, anticipating the lengthening night.
This little window of autumnal sunrises before dark creeps over my mornings.
The last morning of a summer
of unexpected ease.
An arch of light on the horizon.
Summer is leaving the lake now. There is a quieting all along the trail.
Footfall and breath, and an absence of birdsong.
The sky was still dark at 4.45 when I woke to meditate. White by the time we hit the trail. These last mornings running in the half-light before the cows are taken in, and all the geese have flown south, I breathe it all in.
Now, while the world is wet and the fallen pine needles still green.
Not dreaming, but stepping on egg shells this morning.
It’s been a week since I heard the cuckoo, though the songbirds are still here, getting on with the effort of living before they leave us to another season of darkness and crows.