Running for Now
I am not a runner. I don’t even like doing errands. This stage of life feels like it’s meant to be a time of opening and softening. A time to let go of pleasing everyone. And time to generally lower the standards.
I have been jogging for five weeks now. I do not look forward to it. I manage with little mind games. You don’t have to run, just put on your shorts and t-shirt. You don’t have to run, just jog the first 50 meters and stop. And so on. I run for approximately the morning and then stop and walk, as God intended, the rest of the way home. The only rule is to run a little further than the day before. Today I finally took a watch so I could know how many hours I was up to. The watch said seventeen minutes.
To be nice, I had asked a runner what they enjoyed about it. They said when they finished running they felt like hugging everyone. I wanted that feeling.
I wonder if I am trying to run away from my sadness in ways that will only prolong it. (This is one of the strongest arguments for cancelling each morning, but I remind myself that I can still feel sad in shorts.) Today I saw it like a picture in my head, the sadness running along beside me. Like a shadow. But not like a weight.
When I finish, I feel like hugging me.
Isaman Cann is the pen name of one of the world’s tens of thousands of Michelle Jones’s. Isaman Cann currently walks and writes in the beautiful province of Quebec, Canada, where she tragically speaks very little French. She writes in between a job and family that she loves, while trying madly to sidestep the hideous demons of non-essential duties masquerading as crisis. Isaman is nearing completion of a book of lyric essays and is seeking representation.