It had been weeks since I last ran. It’s surprising how quickly my mind went from “I love running! I can do this!” to, “Can I do this still?” I went from depression to inversion (bad Utah air between snow/rain storms in the winter) to snow and ice on the ground (I know, I have Yak-Trax, but I’d just rather not, you know?). I chose instead to exercise lightly in the comfort and warmth of my home, and to teach yoga.
But last night? Last night was the night. I had felt this vast unknown before me all day, the kind that weighs you down body and soul. It was 43 degrees and had just rained, so I knew there was less ice on the ground than there had been. I put on my fleece jacket, ear warmers, and gloves and off I went.
I ran in the dark streets of my neighborhood. I ran with my feet pounding on the wet streets, dodging lingering piles of snow and ice. I ran where I wanted to run, weaving up and down the streets. I ran with a prayer, and then with the tune of “To Make You Feel My Love” on repeat in my head (the Ane Brun version). I ran to let go.
And when I got home, two miles later, stretched and settled— only then did I realize that I didn’t notice the cold at all when I ran. I noticed everything else.
I can still do this after all.