Love From Out of Nowhere

A woman who may or may not have issues with mental stability sat near me at the coffee shop. I had spread my stuff over two tables and apologized. Sorry, do you need this table? No, she said. I'm just waiting for my coffee. I said, I'd just carelessly pushed stuff over there. She said, don't you worry about it.

Then she said, that blazer and shirt, those glasses, you look sharp. You look really sharp.

I smiled and said, thank you. I was surprised how happy and grateful I felt.

No, no, she said, like she could tell I was surprised. Really, you look really, really sharp. She made an okay sign andnodded.

I thanked her again.

She said, I can't remember the last time someone said they loved me. Even when I was married. I mean, that was a long time ago, but still. You know?

She looked about forty, so I wondered what a long time meant to her.

I wanted to tell her I loved her. Mostly because, in that moment, I kind of did. But no, it wasn't possible.

Instead, I said, it's important say that a lot more often.

Yeah, she said. Yeah. You get it.

The barista called her name. A beautiful name I hope really was hers. She got up, got her coffee, talked to the barista, then went out into the street.

I'd say it was the best thing that happened to me today, but I've been showered with love all day long. My cup, it overflows. And really, in this blazer, shirt, and glasses, I look sharp, ready to tell you all that I love you.

All of the Above

Work let out early today for the eclipse, so I decided to squeeze in a run before the moon blotted out the sunlight. I grabbed a bite to eat and climbed the stairs to get changed. Ow, my thighs complained. I cchanged into shorts and a t-shirt anyway and wend back down the stairs. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Outside, I did some stretches because I've been told they'll loosen things up. They don't, but I did them anyway. The first steps of the run were tough, but I ran down the block and along the brook.

It didn't go well. I was too tired. I couldn't keep myself going. I ran only two miles at a slog. Returning home, I felt defeated.

I had the urge to write about it as I do most things in my life. I couldn't figure out why until I typed the first line of paragraph two: it didn't go well. Right away I wanted to begin the next paragraph like this:

It went pretty well. I was tired. I had some trouble keeping myself going. But I ran two miles and I don't often care the pace at which I'm moving. I feel good just having run.

Then I could write this: The run was bad, good, neither, both, and more than I can imagine.

The sooner I accept that, the better I'll move through this world whether at a run, walk, crawl, or even standing still letting the universe pass me by.

A New Path

I went for a run. Walked down the driveway, heard the GPS watch beep, trotted into the street, and turned left up the hill. My plan was to do reverse my cemetery run. Five miles. My happy distance. In reverse, I begin uphill for a mile, pass behind the public school, cross the street, and head into the new section of the cemetery.

Cemeteries are great places to run. Quiet. Gently curving, narrow roads without traffic. In summer, fellows work string trimmers or ride mowers, but on April's first Saturday I met only a couple walking their dogs then an old man wearing two hats who told me it was a good day.

The cemetery is divided in two by a stretch of forest on a hill. An eroded dirt road connects the new section to the main cemetery. I was a mile and a half in at the top of that road. Fifty yards on is a turnout where workers dump brush and, if they're anything like me when I worked at a cemetery, hide from the boss for a moment's peace. I usually pass the turnout, wondering about a trail there that flows up over a hillock and into the forest, but pass on. I'm a creature of habit.

Last week, on a different run, I followed a muddy trail through another forest and felt I could have run it for hours. Today, I went into the turnout, up over that hillock, onto a new path.

It led up through the forested hill, wound between trees with occasional detours out of muddly low points. A quarter mile in the path forked. Left, the main path. Right, a narrow trail I chose immediately, leading up higher through more mud, behind the private school, and around to the suburban road.

I didn't want to leave those woods but knew that just down the road was a back entry to the main cemetery. I trotted down the unshouldered road, grateful for drivers that moved over, trying not to curse those who didn't. I turned left onto gravel, passed an old shed with no doors, into the upper section of the main cemetery, set to run up to the highest point, breathe in the view, come down the other side and rejoin my usual path.

Then I noticed a trail through the grass toward the trees. I turned onto it. The mud there was too wide to avoid. My sandals squelched and the mud and puddles coated my feet, sprayed my ankles and calves. I kept going up and found a narrow trail, firmer and drier that I soon knew would lead back to the turnout where I had begun.

I kept going through the turnout. I have no boss and I was at peace. I went down the eroded dirt road into the lower section of the main cemetery, around my usual turns, up and out onto the busy street. I turned left into the small neighborhood bordering the cemetery, back to the busy street, across into another small neighborhood, to the school, and down the road following the brook, onto our street, into our driveway. I stopped the GPS watch, stood beneath the grey sky, and felt overfilled with joy. A few moments later, I walked my muddy feet inside and up to the shower.

After showering, I read the following koan:

Yunmen taught, "I do not ask you about before the fifteenth of the month. Come, say something about after the fifteenth." And then he responded for himself, "Every day is a good day."

The fifteenth of the month on the ancient Chinese calendar is the full moon, a symbol for awakening, so the question is really I don't ask about before your awakening, but rather for you to speak out of your awakening.

I won't pretend to understand that any more than how running a new path filled me with joy. But I wanted to say something about after the run. Maybe tell you how every run is a good run but especially those on new paths.

The Flesh is Willing

You'd think I ran a hundred miles.

Not because I'm tired — I'm not tired at all — but because I feel so good. I'd say four and a half miles never felt so good, but it almost always does.

Like most winters, I've not been running much, but the last few days have been clear and almost warm. Yesterday, I got feeling like getting out on the road a bit. I had limited time but went anyway, figuring even a couple miles might feel good. They sure did.

Before this week, I'd gone six and a half weeks not running. I've done the stairmaster, elliptical, and erg at the gym, but the Y won't allow me to run in huaraches or barefoot, so I don't run there.

After six and a half weeks, my body, overweight as it is, allowed me to comfortably run two miles yesterday and four and a half miles today around the neighborhood and through Morningside Trail. Back home, showered, having some lunch, my body feels great. Ready for more even. Wondrous!

I've been considering a long run this summer, thirty to fifty miles. Who knows if I'll do it, but for now the flesh is willing and that's enough to fill me with joy.