Blackbird

It's Monday.  I overslept.  I left my favorite water bottle at home. I failed to charge my Garmin watch.  I was not prepared for 48 degrees on the Loop this morning. Unruly, smarther-than-your-average-trap mice are still torturing me at home. I forgot poop bags on my dog's walk this  morning.  And I ran free.  Free of the guilt of being late for work because I was 2 hours late for my morning run.  Free of the self deprecating, "How could I forget this or not charge that?" Free of preparedness and free of planning.  Free of the mess at home. Free of deadlines and email. Free to wake slowly and appreciate entirely.  

Two months ago, I would have (and, in fact, did) beat myself up for sleeping late, trudged into the shower and  my black suit and into the office on time, coffee in hand but black and blue all the same.  Ultimately missing the run and the point.  Today, although the thought crossed my mind, I chose better.  I chose to start my day with 6 miles and 52 minutes of meditation and a beautiful sunrise run full of color and cold breaths with new faces and a small army of rowers dotting the landscape.

In that moment when both feet hit the cold wood floor and the decision was before me, I chose to believe this day was a gift - no matter the beginning, no matter the end - a chance to be awake all the same. This presence is not something that comes naturally to me.  So often I catch myself rushing my mind through a run, leaving my body to push through with no known benefit.  But when I focus on the moment, the "getting there" falls away and the destination remains obtainable but otherwise hazy and undefined and I am left only with placing one foot in front of the other and breathing. And in that, I have only the "why" I run.

To heal, like the blackbird, and fly, above the rush to complete another day, into the dark, black night. 

"Take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life,

 you were only waiting for this moment to arise."