I used to run for miles. Four one morning, six another. Sometimes, 13 miles. There were also 17-mile days and 20-mile days — in early September, on Saturday mornings, when those first wisps of fall blew off the Hudson, swirled into the park, rustled the the sycamore leaves.
Twice, there were 26.2-mile days. The New York City Marathon. I think about expanses: the Verrazano Bridge, the apex; moving myself over that immense body of water, feeling close to something big but farther away from myself.
“I discovered New York that way,” I told others, wobbling on the legs that carried me, trying to find and balance on that bit of truth.
The truth is, one of my legs is a bit shorter than the other.
The truth is, I couldn’t ever catch my breath.
The truth is, running always felt best after, once I slowed to a walk.
The truth is, I tried to find reprieve by causing more pain.
How many of us race towards the sun when the only thing we desire is the shade of a tree?
This morning, I chatted with my next door neighbor for the first time in months. We were both sorting through the same packets of sweet pea seeds outside the hardware store on 98th Street.
We discussed our shared belief that flowers restore; they heal.
The truth is, only when I slow down do I find my bliss.