I started running again. I mean, I’ve been running with Edie every morning for years (unless it’s raining because she does not go out in the rain), but that’s a lot of stop-go-sniff-stare-pull-or-be-pulled kind of run. I really started running again, just for myself, sometime in the blur of last summer, as it was a good way to clear my head, move energy, and feel my body ache somewhere other than my heart.

Then with all the stress of moving and major transitions in every area of my life, I felt the need to rest and hibernate, so over the winter, it fell away. And now, with warmer and longer days, I’ve been drawn to move my body in the fresh air again.

As I was running the gravel path around the lake in my new neighborhood the other day, I thought about why I’ve been drawn to running at different times in my life. Initially, I think I was running away from bad habits and towards a healthier version of myself. Sometimes I think I’m running away again now – from my old life, the person I was, the pain, and the patterns that weren’t serving me. Out with the old, in with the new.

I notice my patterns more as I run this 3-mile path several times a week, and as I move through this new phase of my life.

 How fast am I going?

What’s my pace?

Am I faster (better) today than I was yesterday?

When will I finish this lap?

Will the healing ever be done?

I notice the tendency to compare… does the pace of my run or the pace of my healing make me any less whole or any closer to getting to some imaginary finish line?

I work to let go and just be with the experience and observe my surroundings.

 A lone goose gliding forlornly across the lake (where is his mate?).

A huge fish, belly up by the bank, a box turtle nibbling under her gills.

 I look at my watch: 9:47 minute mile. Pick up the pace, move faster, away from the uncomfortable feelings these images cause to stir in my chest.

I get into a faster rhythm, tuning into the sound of gravel underneath my feet as they land in a steady beat. I feel confident and strong. I glance again to check my pace: 9:14 minute mile. 

Am I going too fast? Am I going to burn out? Slow down, this isn’t a race.

I check in with my breath and notice…

The feeling of the sun on my skin.

The reflection of sky on water.

The slight burn in my calves.

The sound of the water rising and falling from the fountains.

The blue heron standing with wings in full span.

And even the lone goose still swimming close by.

I am present. I’m here right now, with all of it. It’s all a teacher.

This healing journey I’ve been on for the last year has felt like a race that never quite ends.

Check this box. Do this work. Peel back the layers. Change your patterns. Be a better you. Get it done. Cross the finish line. Get the gold medal. Heal and be whole.

Just when I think I’m done, there’s another layer to uncover, another day that calls for energy to move, another mile to run. I’m reminding myself that my runs are not a competition, there’s no need for comparison, there’s no final destination; just as the path to healing is not linear and maybe it’s a path I’ll be traveling forever, learning to pace myself and move with more grace and ease with each step along the way.

I start to look at my watch one more time as I approach mile 3 but catch myself. What’s here for me now? Can I just be with whatever I’m experiencing in the moment, without needing to run away or move faster towards something else? Can I let go of my timing and my pace and just be present with how I feel? Can I take it all in and keep steadily moving forward?

I slow down to a walk as I hit the 3-mile mark and can’t help but look… average 9:30 minute mile. Maybe I’m finally finding my natural rhythm. Maybe I’m exactly where I need to be.

Final Curve by Langston Hughes