Born to Run

I’ve been running. Not running around or running errands, simply running.

The loops are short — a mile — and through the woods. This has double advantage of softer ground and no witnesses. I won’t be trying out for a marathon anytime soon. But that’s okay. I’m not training for a race, unless the battle to stay ahead of this disease counts.

I don’t need to know if I’m bettering my time with each jaunt. What’s so wonderfully surprising – besides the fact that I can actually, physically, run – is how centering it is. It’s as though I’m moving through an unnamed asana, the Deer Flow or the Winged Warrior. Some primordial sense kicks in as I’m making my way along paths of old leaves and pine needles. I feel graceful and strong while I’m out there – hardly like a gimp at all.

That runner’s high is likely to elude me, though. If I don’t concentrate on each step, there could be pine needles across my face. It may actually be the focus – from feeling my ankle flex to kicking off with the back foot – that has me so completely in the moment, so centered.

The exercise is good, no doubt, at keeping symptoms at bay.  So, too, is that I’m not running out of time, running away, running on empty. I’m simply running.