My running habit is now six weeks old. And when I say “running”, I mean “plodding somewhat quickly”.

I’ve been running for twelve consecutive minutes, walking briskly for one minute, then running for another eight minutes. Tomorrow, I advance to fifteen minutes of running, one minute of walking, and five minutes of running. The prospect of ultimately running for twenty consecutive minutes excites me.

This is not to suggest that I love running, because I don’t. I still get all sweaty and gross (say “all sweaty and gross” with that California inflection) well before the initial ten minute mark. The sensation of uncomfortable heat associated with self-consciousness envelopes me when the occasional people running (invariably faster) in the opposite direction and I exchange glances: Their faces are dry and lack a rosy red hue. My face, in contrast, suggests that I am afflicted with scarlet fever and recently dunked my head into the spray of a drinking fountain.

It’s a fine line between high metabolism and endocrine malfunction.

Though I am not smitten with running, I do not loathe it, either. If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I like it—but I don’t “like like” it.

Running especially appeals to the morning person within me. With summer upon Seattle, the sky is already filled with light—of the unfiltered, non-grey variety, if we’re lucky—by the time I step outside around 5:45am. The birds and squirrels are also rising to greet the day, but most people are not. Few cars are on the road; usually the only vehicles that share the streets with me are the city buses and a couple of empty taxis. Three or four people—some with blue collars, others with white—may linger silently at a bus stop, clutching their paper cups steaming with coffee and skimming the newspaper headlines. We usually make eye contact, but infrequently do we greet each other. It’s apparently too early—and maybe too quiet—to do that.

Few people are at the park, though those who do appear are generally regulars. One homeless man habitually sleeps in the same corner, completely oblivious to the roars of the buses that roll past not even twenty feet from him. Another homeless man occasionally walks through the park to watch the garbage disposal truck make its early morning rounds.

One of the two men inside the garbage disposal truck makes a point of saying hello to me, pausing while in the midst of tying a knot in a garbage bag. If my throat is dry, my voice cracks when I say hello back to him.

Sometimes, a man strolls through the park with his dog. He yells. His loud voice disturbs the otherwise tranquil morning. He shouts about the injustices of the pet laws, the corruption of the city police, and the outlandish prices of watermelons. Maybe he’s conversing with his dog. Maybe he’s just trying to hear himself. I avoid making eye contact with him.

On Fridays, two young women usually play tennis. They’re not very skilled, but they are clearly enjoying themselves. They also avoid making eye contact with the Man Who Yells.

On Wednesdays, a man carrying one of those travel coffee mugs leisurely walks to the middle of a field, places the mug on the grass, and practices what appears to be tai chi. He has broad shoulders, a slender waist, and good posture. He usually wears a white tee shirt.

Occasionally, two older women also jog in the park. One woman always wears the same outfit—blue tee-shirt and black capri pants. (That’s not a derisive comment, because I wear the same outfit every time I run, too.) The other woman wears different color-coordinated outfits—she dresses better than anyone else in the park. The last time I saw her she sported a bright yellow tee-shirt, white capri pants, yellow socks, white sneakers, open white track jacket, and a yellow-and-white colored handkerchief wrapped around her head. Dark sunglasses completed her outfit.

Every morning I run, I eagerly anticipate the dawn soaking into my skin and filling my lungs. When it’s raining, I listen to the wet breeze rustle past my ears and thank the sky for providing me the opportunity to appear wet from the rain, versus sweaty from running. If clouds are in the sky, I watch them glow orange-purple from the rising sun before they transform into grey-white streaks reaching across the heavens. I notice the leaves quietly moving in the patient trees. As the sun climbs into the day, my eyes adjust to the increasing brightness and the warmer colors that slowly fill the world.

Each morning is a gift and, while running, I can watch it silently unwrap itself.

(P.S. Thank you, Wesley in Eastern Washington, for sending me a book from my wishlist!)

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)