Things Unseen

Unless I'm mistaken, it's been said that something like 90% of the information your brain perceives is visual.  It would logically follow, then, that an environment in which vision was reduced would yield significantly less perceived information.

I suppose it should come as no surprise that, yet again, a pre-dawn run seemed to fly in the face of logic.

Stepping out into the darkness around 4:30, I'd be lying if I said that I was happy to be out of bed, but, also true to form, within a very few minutes, the loathsome facade had fallen away, and I was struck by the wonder all around me.

...that I couldn't see...

Sure, the stars were gorgeous as usual, and yes, the faint overcast of city lights radiated beautifully upward in the distance, but the things unseen were the true marvel of the morning.

With the sun still far from threatening its arrival, and with the groggy blur slowly shaking out of still-sleepy eyes, the other senses bolted to life.

Smelling the damp trees and grass all around, hearing the chirping insects and occasional hissing sprinkler, feeling the cool, humid air rushing past while road slowly passed underfoot; it seemed like even the sensations inherent with perennially tight ankles and achy arches were enhanced and, somehow, more pleasant.

Could it be that through the deprivation of a primary sense, we can actually gather more sensation via the empowerment of the others?  Is it possible that the dark, calm solitude of an early morning run can teach us more about the world around us than the cacophony of perception that comes with the daylight?

This morning's run seemed to indicate so, but this afternoon's might challenge the notion...