The Bridge

I portage west, up and over the hill and down to Lake Union. It is gray and there is a mist in the air. I think that the grayness might remove the distractions from the day's paddling.

As I cross the bridge over the freeway, a woman runs past and she reminds me of a dream that I had last night or last week - dreams are so often not fixed in time. In my dream, I am running. Not jogging nor in a panicked sprint, but a fluid powerful run where I can feel the traction between my feet and the earth.
I wonder what my last dream will be. Will it be running, or paddling, or will I dream of something that I never took the time to do?

The bridge always reminds me of my former career. So often, most of the time, in fact, cars here are jammed up in traffic. I wonder if the people in them ever thought that they would spend so much time stuck in traffic. They go with the flow. Did they ever imagine when they were young that they would grow up to go with the flow?
I put in and I paddle north and then east and then south, around into the big lake until until my paddling begins to take me away from my house.