The Measure of Sand

A wooden three-minute sand timer lay stranded on its side across the console, its amber grains dormant across both bulbs. Conditioning is meaningless without an uncompromising measure. I planted my boots firmly onto the walnut grain, wedged both hands beneath the round maple cap, and hoisted the hourglass upright in one deliberate, vertical surge. The sand began its steady descent. Immediately dropping into an immovable deep squat braced against the oak bookend, I locked my spine and held the stance without wavering. My legs bore the strain, but discipline permits no surrender. When the final grain settled, I rose with absolute poise. The standard is set.