"If you don't leave your house today, you may miss something wonderful"
The title of this post comes from Kim Krolak's essay, "Running Lessons," in How Running Changed My Life, ed. Garth Battista (Breakaway Books, 2002), p. 157. On this muggy morning, my body and mind wilted from post-relay letdown and a vapid performance at my Tuesday interval workout, I was engaged in one stall tactic after another to postpone my five miler.Had I really performed so well in the relay? My team was fourth, five minutes out of third in our division, and I could not help but return in my mind to that time I stopped, even though I felt all right, to let the volunteers help me. What if I hadn't stopped? What if, later, I'd picked up my pace more? What could I have done better? Coming to the workout last night, the shadows of these questions had overtaken my joy at completing the two loops, had made me forget about the "force," that magical light stick I waved as I crossed the finish line for the second time. The memories of being last picked in school and in children's recreation programs haunted me. And my half mile repeats last night went from okay to slow to barely moving--until I resolved to just run the distance easy, so I could have the five miles I'd promised myself for the day. I am no athlete, not much of a runner. Everyone on my team had delivered except me. And stepping out to run today was the last thing I wanted to do.
Who was I kidding? Why did I do this? I found myself thinking of all the "I'm sorry's" I wanted to say to everyone and anyone. I'm sorry I held you back. I'm sorry I'm an underachiever. I'm sorry I didn't run faster, catch the ball that would have won the game, struck out. I felt more like Charlie Brown in his "goat" moments than like the warrior that I felt I was that night at the relay.
But as I browsed through the "running lessons" essay, those words, "you may miss something wonderful" spoke loud and clear.. ."Don't do this to yourself," I thought. At the very least, I could miss five miles that would be mine, that no one could take from me. They might be five very slow miles, but they would be my five miles.
So I set the book down and was out the door. Despite some cooling off from a rainfall the night before, the air was still and damp--the dampness of a wet, moldy towel.
But I was not about to miss something wonderful, and wonderful things can happen even on muggy, hot, sticky days. I'd witnessed that on Saturday. Whatever my performance, the event had raised thousands of dollars to help people struggling to find their feet.
My route to the Upper Darby High School track takes me through Naylor's Run Park, a green oasis in an increasingly populated suburb, the site of the high school's home cross country course. Whatever goes wrong elsewhere in my life, that park is my friend--a place of solace, offering shade, a wood chip trail (a short stretch, alive with woodpeckers, cardinals, and occasional rabbits skittering off into the woods). In this park, I have seen a fox, an egret, hawks overhead, snakes (not poisonous, just a black or garter snake, whose movements, runners, should offer a lesson in speed), and without losing a pound on the scale, felt lighter after leaving than before entering.
When I reached the track, the usual group of kids from a program for people with retardation had gotten there first and were variously walking and running and talking and laughing. I almost decided to bypass the track for this reason, wanting solitude, but something told me to go ahead down the steps to the track. I reasoned that possibly the something wonderful that could happen would occur there. But whether it did or not, I would at least be assured of two miles (approximate distance to the track was a mile and a half... add two miles on the track and a run home, and I'd have five miles... in an uncomplicated fashion). I wasn't running for time, in any case, so some zig-zagging around the knots of walkers and runners wasn't going to make much difference. One lap at a time, I told myself when that overheated self resisted, wanted to bag it and go home. One lap at a time.
And eventually, with no time recorded, my stopwatch on 0:00.00--I had decided against timing myself and thus being reminded starkly of my slow pace--but eight laps completed, I was ready to head home. Still doubtful. Still sorry for not being a better runner, a faster runner, the runner in my fantasy who flies over hills and jumps over streams and breaks the tape. But at least satisfied that I hadn't entirely given in to the self-pity so much that I quit prematurely. At least I'd eked out two miles. A man working on the school grounds commented, "I don't know how you can run when it's so hot. I can't." I wasn't sure how I could run either, but I didn't say that, just said, "gotta do what I gotta do." And then headed back along the driveway toward the garages and the path down the hill to State Road.
There, between the garage and the dumpsters, perhaps the school's grungiest location, near the hiding place for teens skipping class for a cigarette break, came that something wonderful.
In the midst of the "I'm sorry" thoughts danced forgiveness in the form of a butterfly.
Its wings--a yellowish-orange-gold, the colors shining into my gloom, reminded me, as the butterfly fluttered in circles around me, that the "something wonderful" I could find on my runs hadn't so much to do with the mythical athlete of my dreams, the one I wished I were--but the reality that even grungy places (in the mind or on a school property) can yield wisdom and beauty.
The butterfly would sometimes stop to rest, closing its wings together into a triangle and opening them again. And although even in repose, its closed wings subtly striped, hinted at the drama within, it revealed its full y glory when opening its wings to fly, reminding me to do the same: open my wings and fly. Take the risk.
Butterflies would give up if they saw only their worm selves and never opened themselves to their possibilities for transformation. They have had to be still for part of their journey, allowing the process to happen. And they have had to push through a chrysalis, awaken, and fly. Always with the chance that the cruel forces of the world could snatch them up, but still, open their wings, forget the worm and be the butterfly they were destined to be.
I lingered there at that spot near the school garage for several minutes, not wanting to leave, wanting to let the butterfly tell its story to me right there. Finally, it was time to go--and so I pronounced a blessing on this butterfly.... protection, safe flight, a peaceful passing when the time came, and inspiration to many more people who might stop to notice its beauty. And as I headed home, memories came of a different sort--not of the failures but of times when I had helped others, made a difference for the better. Forgiveness. A dance. An opening of the wings. A memory of wings open.
So on I run. Thanks to that something wonderful that happened when I left the house.
posted by DPMcManus @ 9:52 AM
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