What Happens in a Writer’s Mind When They Run
Impressions and glances
Recently, it’s been hard to leave the house to run. What with the sky glowering, and not even the cruel whips of wind able to shift the lumpen clouds. And it’s been cold, the coldness of February in April.
But today is gorgeous. Sun pours like honey over the grass and blue dominates the sky. The palms are unruffled and birdsong crackles and sparkles. I am buoyed by the words lavender field. For that is where I am bound.
10k today, easy pace, time to observe, to receive whatever comes to me. Because running is about receiving. Sights, sounds, thoughts.
Running differs from walking; one receives snapshots, flashes, impressions—of brief duration but penetrating intensity. A clump of bluebells, puffs of dandelion heads, and one sees and grasps in an instant that their stalks are red and thick and flesh-like, unexpectedly robust and then one remembers dandelions, and what resilient and doughty plants they are, and the stalks are fitting.
Along the wooded trail, trees are lacy green cathedrals, their smell pungent and fecund, like sperm.
Past the hedge where the fox lies. Six months ago, he was freshly dead. His paws soft and plump, his hind legs still golden curves of muscle. He looked as if he was taking…
