7.08.2010

A little slice


This has been a hot summer. Day after day of 90-plus temps, and it’s beginning to wear a bit. Running can become a private war on days like these. The work needs to be done, but the mind-body connection isn’t happening. By some miracle, I get outside, start moving, and hope for the best.

This morning I decided to close my mind to the art film that is constantly developing, editing, replaying, over and over and over in my head. Instead, I opened my mind to the little things, the tiny, almost imperceptible joys of running early in the morning, as the world is just awakening.

It would be easy to force the focus, to keep my eyes consciously trained on the next little thing, every bug or butterfly or bird. But that would be cheating. So I just unburdened myself. I opened my heart and my eyes and waited for something to happen, knowing that maybe nothing would happen. And in the process, I saw things I know those whizzing by on bicycles, let alone those in hermetically-sealed cars, would never see. And if I blinked or looked the other way, I’d never see them either.

I saw three male goldfinches, feathered bodies like pure sunshine, tangled in a spat in a low tree. I saw a huge black beetle, overturned and grasping at a life slipping away (should I use a stick to turn it over?) I saw a fat worm covered in an army of tiny ants, intent on some communal task. I saw a honeysuckle plant, dense with orange flutes, thriving up a light pole towering to the blue sky. I only imagined, however, the hummingbirds and butterflies.

Mile by mile, with my heart exposed, I made it through my morning run in relatively cool 83-degrees, a teaser for the 95 the mid-afternoon will see. Another day, a different perspective.

As always, I’m glad I did.