On these days that struggle to decide whether to be called late winter or early spring, the gray of the lake and the gray of the sky are separated by just a few notches of darkness. Their steady flatness mirrors my footfalls, plod plod plod plod, along the sidewalk, around trashcans and poorly parked vans.
“Where are you trying to get when you run?” N asks. Over and over, I tell him that I’m not trying to get anywhere, I’m just running to run, to see how long and far I can go.
But that’s not quite true. I’m running to get here, to the brink of spring, to this moment when every now and then I notice that something fragrant and delicious is just starting to bloom. These days when the drizzle feels more refreshing than needling. When people out walking their dogs look up and nod as I pass, heads freshly emerged from cinched down gore-tex hoods, blinders removed.
And I’m running to get here, to this space where my brain is free from the clutter of living, where I can meditate and notice and write. I’m running to feel like I want to take on more instead of hunkering down and doing less.