Slow run

21 April 2018

Today, I decided to go for a slow run.  I had clinic in the morning, walked to lecture, and then walked home.  There were a few hours before I had to walk to the hospital again.  It was cool outside, and sometimes it is possible for me to remain perfectly clean if I keep cool enough whilst running.  So I decided to run as slowly as necessary to keep clean.  The sun was bright, the sky so blue that it looked like a brilliant flat paper pressed up against the branching trees and telephone lines.  Everything was bright.  The dogwood trees had grown their bracts to a whiteness nearly shocking.  The greenness of the grass hurt my teeth.  My retinae absorbed all of the colour and were saturated.

I always run in short shorts, with my shirt tucked in, my hair tidy, and my shoes fastened with minimal elastic bands.  Today, I untucked my shirt, let the wind I created with my body billow it a bit and rush around my skin.  I slid the elastic from my hair and let it swish on my shoulders every step.  I ran slowly, lightly—airily thoughtful, I floated through the park, under the trees, up and down hills, past flower bushes of brilliance, on sidewalks and on grass, past the church, by dogs and their walkers, and past children playing in their front gardens.  Each step, I was between strides, drifting forward in the slowing of time as though by a puff of wind.  The sea of my mind calmed as I focused without effort on the detail before, behind, above, below.

A deep breath, a direction of thought and energy away from oneself and to all that is around and about, an acceptance of each colour, scent, sound, and shape—these are required to live in one single moment.

[written on Tuesday]