It was like running in a cauldron of soup. The air was clammy and moist, I was clammy and moist. Even the webs between my fingers were clammy. Sweat poured off my shoulders and landed on the backs of my legs. It was wild.
But what a run! Leaves scattered over the path and crunched beneath my feet, the smells reminding me of growing up in northwestern Pennsylvania and how we would rake leaves, run and jump in them, our arms held high, our legs kicking out from under us. I need to jump more. I need to be reckless and throw myself into piles of leaves. I need to take more chances.
|Leaves along the Steamboat Trace Trail on Thursday's run.|
Running opens me up to possibilites and reminds me of the desires I ignore, the ones I think I don't deserve or aren't good enough for or am not smart enough or clever enough to recieve.
I say this because I'm in the process of applying for two large (over $50,000) writing grants. I don't have a chance in hell for either of them. Yet I'm applying, because by the mere act of sending in my application I'm telling myself that I am worthy, that my writing is worthy. That my dreams are worthy. Running has taught me to think this way.
Today a bird flew into a window. I heard a thud, ran out and discovered its body lying on the balcony floor.
|RIP, little guy|
I don't know if birds are capable of thought process, but I like to think that as this one flew it felt the same way I feel as I run: pure and fluid and strong and beautiful. That right before it hit the sun-speckled window, it was cruising towards its own PR.
It's a nice thought. It's probably not true, but so what?
Monday: 1 mile, swim
Tuesday: 12 miles, run
Wednesday: 1.2 miles, swim
Thursday: Rest (Mary! Look--I took a rest day!)
Friday: 4 miles, run
Saturday: 14 miles, run
Sunday: 8 miles, run