She’s out running again.
The trail goes on. Pine needles and leaves cushion perfectly and fill the air. The trees rise up on either side, like her army of protectors. Occasionally she stops and puts her hand on one in gratitude and kinship. She swears one day she’ll feel touch in return. Her earbuds are in today as she is searching for the furthest expanse possible, unbeknownst to her, maybe.
Around thirty minutes in the cobwebs start to clear and the clean-out beings again. Every run, a journey away from critique and towards love.
Running is both her best friend and her worst enemy. At least that is what many try to have her think. The many, that is, who don’t know her at all. Take it easy, be kind to yourself, why do you do that, there must be something wrong, there she goes again; in moments of hesitation, she wonders if they are right. But around kilometer twenty-one she shakes that off another time and knows better once again. The beat is intoxicating. At times she sings and at times her breath is taken away in a heady mix of exertion and awe. Tears of exaltation are often close. Between lyrics, her mind does its thing. There’s the wrestle of the weeks events, the smattering of things to remember to do, and the recurring wondering about where this all ends. Every now and then her watch vibrates and another kilometer passes. God she feels good. Her body is fully her own and her mind knows no limits. If she could hear it, her breath would be frequent but steady and firm and completely under control. Passersby catch her smirk. Many of them understand what is going on here and make space for it.
Back at the car she peels off her vest and loosens her shoes and takes a long drink of water. She lets out her hair, flips it over, and pulls it up off of her face. As she does, her hand runs across her cheek and the salt stings and scratches. The day is warm. The run has done just about all it was meant to do. She pulls out of the lot and heads back home. Slowly the scenery starts to pull at her insides. Cement, exhaust, indifferent architecture, lifeless streets; its contrast to where she just was and where she has been is jarring.
The drive is short. Back at home her senses get relief again.
He’s in the kitchen, completely at ease between tasks. His beard has grey in it now. She likes to think that every grey hair is a hash mark in the tally of battles they’ve won together and secrets they share. He asks how it went. He always asks. He knows. He knows what the run’s purpose is and he knows that some runs just aren’t long enough to totally get there. He asks to learn if she got there or not. Her shoulders relax, he puts his hands on her hips, the weight of them is perfect, she feels every short whisker surrounding the skin of her lips, she takes a deep inhale. There’s a flash of recall where these lips and hands were last night. The present and the remembered ecstasy at once completely different yet equally powerful. And just like that, the last clutch of critique lets go and slides away and love expands back into its space.
“It was good.”
“Kids are on the tramp and I’m going to go grab some groceries. Tonight we need to book those flights and can you sign a bunch of cheques for me? I’m out and it’s a pay week.”
“For sure.”
She walks upstairs, draws a bath and puts on a new album. As the bubbles fill the glistening white tub, the sunlight in the room is perfect. Her tea sits on the tub’s edge and its roses, almost imperceptibly, start to unfurl. Lavender rises in the air. As she sinks under the water the smirk returns. What magic lives in this house. What potential bounces electrically off of these walls. What she doesn’t quite understand yet though, is how to focus it. Her mind buzzes, her abdomen aches as a flurry of neon butterflies travel throughout it, she closes her eyes. There’s a break in the music. She can hear squeals of delight outside. Her faithful guardian lies outside the door breathing gently. She understands. She is going to write. Question is: where is she going to start and how much is she going to tell.