Stepping out into the cool dawn, I went for a morning walk. The air, the foghorn from the bridge, the sound of seagulls above, and experiencing the city before it was fully awake began to feel like one of the better decisions I’ve made in a while. It reminded me of when I’ve traveled to other cities and would be out in the mornings foraging for a coffee shop or breakfast. I’m not usually out of my apartment at 6:30 in the morning. This felt novel and it made me consider swapping my nightlife with friends at bars for the serenity of morning walks. I’ve forgotten how nice these can be.
I didn’t look at my phone. I didn’t listen to music. I only listened to the sounds of the morning and the narration in my head. I looked at the people and the buildings and the marbled clouds and the dogs chasing balls at Marina Green and the Bay just beyond. I paid attention to the pit-pat, one-two, one-two sounds of the runners’ sneakers as they hit the macadam path. I paid attention to the other people out in the morning. Dog walkers and coffee drinkers, a man on a bike with four or five massive plastic bags full of recycled cans and water bottles tied to the back (like something you’d see in the crowded streets of a foreign country). I made my way to the beach at Crissy Field which was desolate save for a man and his dog and two men fishing from the shore of the Bay. The trash cans were overflowing from yesterday’s crowds. Pelicans rose and dipped in flight, getting low enough to skim the surface of the water. To the east, a soft gray and golden light danced between the clouds. To the west, the famous Bridge invisible in the heavy fog. On my return walk, a running club of about 30 or 40 runners appeared like a murmuration of starlings. They passed quickly – the sound of their chittering and chattering rising and falling as they ran past.
For much of my walk, especially after passing the group of runners, I thought about the pleasures of solitude. I don’t think I’d want to run with 30 or 40 other people. A woman walking behind me was having a phone conversation and I thought that’s the last thing I’d like to be doing in this moment. I felt a level of smugness as though I know how to live a better life, as though I know what’s worthy of attention. I also felt a little…bad/guilty? I remembered that I used to argue with a girlfriend because she wouldn’t always return my texts in the morning. In it’s simplest form, our problem was that we were on different time schedules. Because I woke up an hour or two before she did, I had already had my morning quiet and didn’t realize I was intruding on hers. I also thought about these two versions of myself: the social one who hangs out at bars and the less social one who takes long solo walks and reads at cafes. Though even at the bars, I’m fairly reserved. Friends will say, “hey, keep it down over there.” I thought about these different needs: the need to connect, the need to reflect. Walking past a bus stop, a half-dozen people stood waiting for their morning commute – their heads and neck craned downwards looking at their phones. Again, the smugness returned. That’s no way to live a life.
The morning walk (and parts of a 13-mile hike in the mountains yesterday) reminded me of the fall weather back east, reminded me of the other lives I’ve lived. I looked inside an apartment window and was reminded of the exposed brick kitchen of a woman I used to know. The sand at the beach reminded me of summers past with family at the Jersey shore – finding solitude in a crowd. As such, I’ve been thinking about that poem, “If I Had Three Lives” by Sarah Russell and the minor lamentations that this world is far too big and our time far too short to live out more than a few of our possible lives: the artist, the socialite, the loner, the family man, the barfly, the nomad, the stressed-out workaholic, the athlete, the vagabond, the lover, the thief, the helper, the observer, the do-er and adrenaline junkie.
It’s later now. It’s always later now. I can hear the foghorn’s low bellow from my apartment. The clock ticks and we put on different clothes. We get ready for work, for a run, for chores, or for some version of our self that we’ll wear for a few minutes or hours and show to a few different people before we change into some other version of our self. It’s barely been a few hours of morning quiet and reflection and already I feel as though I’ve had a pretty full day. I think I’ll try this again tomorrow.