I almost always run around my house, or in a local park-- all interconnected with a trail system. Nice, wide, flat, hard asphalt. Or sometimes sidewalks and roads in between the trails. There are neighborhoods to zigzag through. People to watch. Houses to admire. Fellow walkers and bikers to politely smile and nod at while breathing heavily.
But today I went and ran in a nature park south of town. I always text my friend and tell her I’m going so in case I don’t’ return, they will know where to search for my body. It is remote. It meanders through trees and meadows and bushy growth. And I rarely pass any other human while there. I was excited to run somewhere new today. I was excited to be outside in this early fall-tease-weather. I was excited to looks up and take in the view of the water, the trees, and maybe even wildlife.
But instead, my eyes were on the trail. My scenery consisted of exposed roots; fallen leaves in three different conditions—settled, mashed and nearly-fossilized; a few piles of unidentifiable dung; and a stray nut or husk here or there. I was afraid if I lifted my eyes for an elevated view, I would wander off the dirt and into evil poison ivy, or trip over a land-mine-root, or absent-mindedly twist my ankle on an unassuming piece of gravel.
So I didn’t appreciate the archway of trees overhead, or the pollen-heavy yellow and white blooms that lined the trail. I didn’t look up and notice the way the blue sky was sliced by thin tree limbs. I didn’t spy the small wind-wrinkles in the face of the lake.
But it wasn’t as disappointing as it sounds. I met my running goal today without a stumble, a wander, a scratch, a problem. And that seemed enough for today. Satisfying. I still felt the warm sun on my shoulders and the cool breeze pushing at the sweat-drenched tendrils around my neck. I still heard the bird call and smelled the scent of soil and photosynthesis.
There are moments that I should/need to/am invited to stop and take in the scenery. To look up and out and around. To breathe in deeply. To embed a panoramic landscape in my mind’s eye. To stick my head out the window. To run my fingers through the blades of grass. And I crave and am fed by those moments.
I remember one summer day on the way back down from a trip up Mt. Rainier. My friend Erin and I pulled off the side of the road and hop-scotched our way out to a giant rock pouting in the middle of a trickling creek. We sat crossed-legged on this baked stone, absorbing its warmth while plunging our hands in the cold water to choose smooth pebbles. We tossed and launched these pebbles into the creek and reveled in each kerplunk. This simple amusement lasted for hours as we drank in the sound, smell, sight, sense of that slice of the mountain. That was a savor moment. I love savor moments. I want plenty of them. Literally and spiritually.
But I’m also content with the reality that there are succeed seasons--watch the trail and put one foot in front of the other. My eyes may not drink in the beauty of the surroundings, but they act as sentinels of safety. They allow me to move ahead. I find my way. I notice the terrain. I mark the miles. I remain firm-footed. I will be able to savor again soon enough, but for now – Persevere. Succeed. Focus. See.
Jeremiah 31:21
Take note of the highway,
the road that you take.
Psalm 17:5
My steps have held to your paths;
my feet have not stumbled.
You are a poet!
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