I woke up with an overwhelming urge to run in the rain. Maybe it was because the misty, apocalyptic-like fog that hung heavy in the sky last night had lifted. Maybe it was because somewhere deep down in my runner’s soul, I knew it was the only way to pull me out of my own dark fog. Or maybe it was just because I knew how happy it would make Maple. This would be her second run since surgery a little less than three weeks ago to remove her left eye. Whatever the reason, off we went. And as we ran, I thought these thoughts.
I am not as fast as I once was. And even slower than usual. With a left leg that continues to hastle me. Sometimes it’s my glute, hamstring or calf muscle screaming at me. And sometimes it’s a thing called a bursa. A fluid-filled sac behind my knee I did not know I had. That’s the thing about running, I thought. It teaches me things about myself and my body I did not know. It teaches me that I can grow. It teaches me that I can go slow. It teaches me to look for sure footing. And that even when I stumble or fall, I can get back up and keep on going. It teaches me about being alone. And having a companion. And that both are equally satisfying. It teaches me that even when I am hurting, there is joy. And that even when the world seems ugly, there is beauty. And that even when I am tired, I will get to the other side.