It is Saturday morning, and I begin to run. My legs are wooden pillars, glued to the earth. My soul is exhausted, driven into the ground by the weight of the endless sea of tasks that follows me wherever I go. My husband’s recent foot surgery has doubled the everlasting cadence of housework, grocery shopping, and meal preparation. I am having to walk both dogs now – in series, not parallel. I am mourning the familiar and frequent camaraderie of my young adult children. And the relentless drone of electoral indecision pulls at me, follows me, flattens my normally bubbly effervescence.
I am in trouble. I had planned a two-hour run today to ready myself for a December half marathon race that will not be held. My maladaptive response is to prepare anyhow, as if readiness will magically change the parameters of a global pandemic. Pre-race conditioning allows me to focus on the here and now, delaying the acknowledgement that the world has changed.
I thrust my legs onward, confident that the joy of movement will invigorate me. I deliberately lengthen my stride and quicken my pace, waiting for adrenaline to enhance my motivation. I am as certain of this inevitable moment as I am confident in the sturdiness of my limbs and the comforting beat of my heart.
But it does not happen. I am tired for reasons unrelated to fitness or physiology. The normally beguiling fall foliage fails to beckon me. The irresistibly mossy rocks lining the trail do not draw me forward. The refreshingly chilly breeze does not cool me. I plod onward, pulled by resolute stubbornness, bereft of energy, athleticism, or endurance. Persisting is a more viable option than quitting – but just barely.
An hour and a half into my run, my Audible book narration is disrupted by excited text messages and the quiet but rapid boom of WhatsApp communications. I glance down, and I catch my breath, reading that the networks have called the election outcome. I momentarily stumble, my feet caught up in an emotional tangle of relief, solace, and deliverance.
I pause to regain my jumbled footing and my psychological bearings. I start to respond to text messages. As I do, my cell phone inexplicably shuts down, a mystifying event from my trusty cellular device that was fully charged this morning. I cannot communicate with the outside world, read the news, or even know what time it is.
I move forward, my pace accelerating. The sunshine snuggles its way between leafy branches and breaks free, brightening the world with its robust gladness. People emerge onto the park pathways, dogs bark, a woman laughs. Parents gently admonish a child on a bicycle to slow down, to wait for them.
The world is mysteriously renewed and so am I. My laggard tempo perceptibly quickens, effort dissipating, as I search out a course back to my car. Enthusiasm supplants fatigue, and I move freely, darting alongside bushes and almost skipping through gravel footpaths.
I return to my car, spent but oddly restored. I slip inside and plug in my phone. The elapsed time is exactly two hours from when I began. Thirty-seven happy messages blast onto my screen from family, friends, and co-workers. My knees feel tight, my quads sore, and there is a slight knot between my shoulder blades. I stretch and roll my neck as I scroll through electrifying posts of exhilaration and elation, the celebrations of a fractured nation.
Let the healing begin.