At the start of my morning walk, the sky is the color of eggplant. And the air is cold.
I’m already thinking about how good it’ll feel to be done, how I’m tired, how I’m still stuck on the same problems I was stuck on last night and it seems like I’ll be stuck on them always.
I head up the sidewalk, right at the first intersection, left at the next, then into the park where the street lights are still on.
Above, the sky shifts. As I turn onto the park’s main path, day is spreading across the night.
I do part of the park’s loop, past the meadow, down the hill to the dry creek, dragging all the stuck problems along with me.
Then I turn back. When I come up the hill, there is the sky: gigantic and filling with light, remaking the world as it does each morning.
And it’s incredible that something so huge can move itself from night to day, day to night, never stuck on one. As though it’s the world’s unending reminder to us – look up; change is possible.
I leave the park, go right at the first intersection, left at the next, then down the sidewalk to my building. Last night’s problems are still with me. Only now they seem, as John McPhee would say, less threatening and more interesting. Like they’re made of clay, not cement.
And as I head inside, I think that this sky, this gigantic and moving sky, has remade my day.