Not unpleasantly, I awoke at five and walked outside in the semi-dark, much to the delight of the dogs. The trees are outlined against the just-turning-blue sky at that hour, half a moon appearing above the eucalyptus. The air is still but for one or two singing birds. If I were a more spiritual being, I should meditate at this time, when the promise of the day is still being formed.
Instead, I ate two fat slices of Amy's delicious Irish soda bread, packed with raisins and caraway, slathered in butter, per her instruction. I see Lance Armstrong's face, peeking out of his twitpic on twitter, smiling from his bike, his sinewy brown arms on the handlebars. It's God's way of punishing me. No, Lance would not be eating soda bread and butter first thing in the morning. He'd be pushing up another hill in Provence, the lavender waving cheerily behind him.