So I went for a run this evening and, instead of making it back to the house in a blaze of "that was easy" glory, I had to cut the run a half mile short. To switch things up, I decided not to take my usual town road route which begins down hill and ends on a grueling uphill climb and instead went up the mountain on a trail that'd starts at the end of the driveway. Like all of my runs, the first mile was painfully tedious and the second mile began to loosen me up, but unlike the rest of my runs the third mile went down hill in a bad way. The trees next to me began to feel like they were encroaching the trail, the path in front of me started oscillating and my head seemed to be swimming with spots similar to an optical migraine. No longer confident on my feet but thoroughly aware of my distance from home and my isolated location, I walked the remaining 2640 feet with a sincere hope I'd make it back with no more issues than I already had.
Upon getting to the house and flopping into a chair I checked my blood sugar. I'd dropped to 41 mg/dL -- no wonder I felt off. I thought my blood sugar was high enough before the run to not require more mid-way, but I can only thank God that my stupid assumption didn't result in anything more unsettling than the "what ifs" and "could haves" that are gripping me right now. And while I hate the way my head feels when I have hypoglycemia, the dizziness that resulted from todays run and bound my butt to that chair for a good 40 minutes was punishment enough for me to plan better for next time.
While that spell took a bit to recover from, I found myself back in that same chair again after dinner in what I would consider a greater sense of stupor than earlier in the day. Having corrected my glucose and eaten a full dinner, this second turn can only be associated with the emotional and mental shock that comes with having "old souled" children. Let me explain what happened:
As is usual post-supper, being the quintessential lover of dirt and all things nature that she is, my Mom took her nightly stroll through the property to appreciate the greens, browns and otherwise of the evening. While quite picturesque on any given day, the John Constable clouds and amber glow of my favorite kind of mid-summer sunset of this particular occasion motivated her to take GV along just in case - given the Hollywood perfection of it all - Matthew Macfadyen were to come through the brush as Mr. Darcy professing his undying love to Miss Bennett. The trees were glowing, sky was radiant and every particle of the world felt magically charged as if freshly formed by the hand of God.
Walking first from the kitchen porch down the narrow walkway past the nightshade bush, they turned down the hill and followed the lane past a very tall, likely very old sugar maple tree. With several low hanging branches and a rope swing to rest upon, my Mom stopped to admire the essence of happiness the twinkling fireflies and rustling leaves caused just above their heads. Comfortably enjoying the secure embrace of her Grandmother's arms, GV had until this point been quietly watching the dogs roam the grass in front of the barn, the swooping birds singing their evening recounts of the day, the small garter snake returning to its home amidst the raspberry patch and the silver wisp of temptation blowing across Grandmama's forehead. But, even with life's distractions continuing around her per normal, something amid the stillness below that maple tree took hold of her attention... it was in that moment that with exacting deliberation that she reached for the wavering colors of the sunset as if to embrace them as a familiar comfort. The way my Mother reported it was that "without a doubt, if I hadn't been holding onto that child she would have leapt into the awe and floated away."
Now perhaps I give my seven month old more credit than due, but I cannot help but wonder what she knew about the evening that we did not? What angel did she see or greater-than-self connection did she make that we as adults have closed our minds to? I know my Mom and I fully appreciated the glorious evening and the plum dumb luck that it is our good fortune to enjoy it (sans-hypoglycemia), but it was something beyond appreciation that GV expressed - something I am not sure there's an appropriate word for in our language, let alone my vocabulary...
And so I am sitting here stupefied. I find myself swimming in thoughts and perhaps just as jumbled as I was earlier in the day. I rarely take the time and capacity to register the world around me beyond the peripheral and my kids seem to display the ability in spades. I mean just yesterday GV discovered the second hand on the wall clock and seemingly understood the passing of the quantifiable with every tick... outside of a foot race, I cannot even remember the last time that an individual second as opposed to an entire minute was directly relevant to my conscientious thought. It must be for reasons like this that so many of great writers took to these mountains in search of their muse and why some, Frost and Thoreau for example, found it.
With that, I think I'll continue to bemuse myself and have that glass of wine after all.