The days flash past like a Jason Bourne chase scene. Wasn't it just summer? Wasn't I just lounging around all day, reading poems and plays for DP LA, trying to work out in the earliest of the a.m. and not showering until Ellen was nearly off work?
The tables have been repositioned; now activity chokes each twenty-four block like pollutants strangling away those lackadaisical summer mornings on which I wanted to run, the smog being the most concrete of the assailants on my attempts to achieve a routine - how can you work out three times a week when on two of your potential running mornings, you'd be doing your body more harm than good by going out?
And now - on the third beautiful day in a row - there is much more than just PM 2.5 keeping each day full of surprises and scheduling curveballs. Vocational responsibilities dribbling over into night and weekend, sussing out the truth that the early morning bird that I think I am and want to be is actually a beardy night owl, balancing Elizabeth Bishop poetry explication, wedding invitation production, and forensics season genesis around relationships and dreams. My energy rhythms are changing; instead of getting home and staggering to sleep, I open the windows and want to do and be something or other as the cool, AQI 4 breeze sneaks through the north window and out the south, softly removing any hope of structure from my days.
Can I be successful in a fluid, chaotic, ever-changing lifestyle of slowly moving Ellen into our house as we prepare to become one, of teaching and organizing much newness and oldness at BWYA, of madly pursuing the hopes to learn Chinese, pour into Team Darkness, hone my body into a hiking machine, invest in the body of Christ, and write semi-frustrated blog posts? These are the challenges, and these are the goals. I guess they are getting in the way of each other.
Rhythm is evasive. The world now is not the calendar boxes and neatly-sectioned hours that occupy the planner on my phone. It's more like the weather was in Beijing today: an unpredictable combination of clear, pristine moments; gray, unexpected changes, short bursts of disruptive rain that keep you stuck on your bike under a bridge; and golden, pinkish sunsets before cool crisp nights that might not last before the factory stacks begin churning out toxins again. Structured? No. Stimulating? Yes.