A dedicated runner reflects with gratitude on a life they have manufactured for themselves and others

Suggested Listening

Highland Grace | Hiss Golden Messenger

then

Glued to You | Tomorrows Tulips

It’s not yet dawn.  Right now, at 5:30 in the morning, it’s whatever twilight is called before sunrise, light and cool, on the cusp of day. There is a stretch of gravel road in front of me that’s slick with dew. The grasses growing in the parallel ditches are heavy with water and I imagine them springing back to life under the heat of an 11 o’ clock sun. I love this hard packed road ahead of me. I love the crunch under my shoes when the gravel dislodges, and I love the city that has blossomed just a couple short miles from where I stand.

My body is warming up to this day. My chest is rising and falling quickly, my breath is uneven. I feel the tension and heat in the muscles of my legs beneath the cold layer of fat. One more mile forward, then three back. The routine, the impressed sacredness of it all, thrills me.

These early morning runs are a thanksgiving from me to this land. They are the interest I pay. They are a prayer to God and an acknowledgement of the breath that connects all us living beings. These runs are more sincere than any hour I’d previously spent, prostrate, in a chapel. I run the first mile with complacency in my heart and tiredness in my eyes. Inevitably, after some minutes, I find tears streaming down my cheeks. It’s not containable. My joy, my gratefulness, how my purpose has unfolded before me, running into my cupped hands, ready to be applied to my body and soul.

The prairie spreads in front of me. It forms the horizon and it’s all that I need to exist. First, my panting works against me, jostling my view. But it evens out to match the breath of the early morning world and after a bit I move in harmony. My footfalls pull me forward towards daylight and my body follows, breath mechanical and clean. Bland at first glance but granular with a lingering look, the peaked grasses in this early light are only palely colored. If you let your gaze land on a portion for more than a moment, you’ll notice a spectrum of color. Flashes of wildflowers. Maybe the shiny bead of the eye of a rabbit or fox.

I run the last quarter of mile with my hands outstretched. I am moved by my sheer existent to do so. I want to absorb the sweetness of the present moment through the palms of my hands. Before me clean rows of perfect blue houses. They lead up a shallow hill with a communal dining hall on the east and a community gym on the west.

Hanging, framed, on the wall of my dining room is a piece of yellow legal paper with this city drawn in blue pen. The edge of the paper is jagged and a grease stain mars the bottom corner. The drawing is not hasty. I revisited this sheet of paper many times over. Lines are retraced vigorously, bleeding through to the other side. I kept the paper tucked under a pile of books and pulled it out with regularity, lost in the fantasy of this city. I conceived it as a catharsis and created it compulsively. I lay the foundation for each of these homes and with every subsequent home, the hands helping to build multiplied.

At the end of each day I stood on a chair, then eventually a pulpit, and testified. I spoke on manifestation and purpose. I cried freely in gratitude and encouraged my family to join. Day on day I watched yellow eyes whiten with sobriety, I watched aimless, tired limbs grow the buds of muscle and perk up, reaching for the sun. I watched a family form from a collection of hapless people.  

I’ve promised this family abundance. I’ve promised them reconciliation with their past lives, lighting a path through the valley of atonement. I have cried with them, for them, scooped the rot from the holes formed in their souls. I’ve taught them prayer.

Flashes of blue on my left and right with arms outstretched. Rumblings of personhood in each home, lamp’s light illuminating the stillness. The city a collective organ, breathing together, waking to meet the sun. When the light breaks over the horizon we will pray. Hand in hand, circled on the prairie, the wet of the grass icy on bare feet, the white of my family’s pant legs tarnished by dampness.