Yesterday I biked 10 miles. Took a yoga class. Walked home from the Manhattan Bridge in Chinatown and then walked to lower Soho for dinner and back. I was in a 7:30 yoga class this morning.
I’m tired. But it’s a good tired. A tired born from physical activity, pushing myself, breathing fresh crisp air, laughing with Jack as he rip-sticked up and down curbs, feeling wind whipping at my back while my heart pounded, twisting into triangles and eagles and pigeons (trust me, none of these were at the same time).
What it’s not is exhaustion from frenetic thought, constant spinning, endless worrying, anxious thoughts racing.
This is really different.
I’m hungry. I’m spent. I’m relaxed. I’m mellow. I’m not compelled to be busy. I’m fine with sitting still. Being in this place, this time, watching people walk by on a crisp, cool, bright morning, walking dogs, watering plants, stopping to chat—it’s pretty delightful.
I don’t care how I look. I don’t have much to say. I’m not sure what I’ll be doing in half an hour, this afternoon, later tonight.
And I’m grateful for that.