Thursday, February 28, 2013

Thursday Morning Run

It is Thursday, the one day of the week where I wake long before dawn, trading in a few hours of sleep in exchange for the company of some new-found friends. We meet at 5 a.m. to run a few miles through the streets of the town where I work. Usually I run on lunch breaks and I treasure my sleep, so the fact that I have maintained this routine for several months is a testament to their company. There is an easy camaraderie that comes with falling into step with someone whose rhythm and pace, for whatever reason, happens to mirror yours that day, and sharing with them the random thoughts that float up from the dreamlike mental space that accompanies a run at that time of day.

This will be my last run before my 8K race on Saturday. Last weekend I made the mistake of going out for a quick run the day before a 5K race and I was not able to give my peak performance on race day. That is one of the things I love about running: the fact that it is resting as much as running that builds your strength and ability, that your body weaves its silent magic around the ache of your efforts while you dream and while you rest. It's always the nothingness between your efforts that shapes you.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

The General Song

Whenever I sit down to write, not knowing where to begin, I like to seat myself next to a window, and watch for a minute the quiet drama continually unfolding everywhere around me- to see the snowflakes sliding in their silent cascade down the cones of light supplied by the lamps that line my driveway, the barren trees that will soon be adorned with nature's finest jewelry, fresh spring buds. When I lived downtown it was the people walking down the street, lights flicking on and off behind the windows that cluttered the backdrop, the sound of a distant car alarm. Wherever you are, there is always a larger drama unfolding and your tiny ministrations in the universe form a texture for someone else's observation. Stopping for a moment to listen to the songs of the world, to observe its dance, stepping everywhere around you, makes it easier to dive in at any random point to assert your existence with a word or two, knowing that it matters not what you contribute, so long as it is a thing of beauty, sure to deliver a lightening bolt to some ready soul, eventually, when he's in the right mood and the moon is tugging at the waters of his heart. All that matters is that you join in the general song, that you are willing to let go your voice with all the fearful exuberance of the child who willingly lets go her balloon at the fair, sending it off into the meaningless jubilation that forms the shape of the world, with an impish grin and a stupid trust in absolutely everything.