I love movement. No, actually I CRAVE movement. Were it not for my flat feet and lack of coordination, I would have been a dancer or a gymnast. I'm also a terrible relaxer. Nothing is more excruciating than having to do nothing and having nothing to do. While some people dream of
lying on the beach in the sizzling hot sun for hours at a time, I dream of
watching the world pass by in my periphery, like scenes from a film; blurry and
ethereal, an ever-changing landscape that I can insert myself into at will. I find it difficult to "turn off and tune out." My mind is on constant auto-pilot.
Wanderlust? Angst? Restlessness?
I really don’t know how to define this character trait. All I know is that I
have been afflicted my entire life. Before I had children, I would drive around
for hours after work, just to satiate my thirst for motion (having a zippy sports car certainly helped.) How
ironic is it then that my first love has always been writing: a task that
requires a person to plant themselves in a chair and commit words words to
paper, sometimes for hours at a time. One might argue that the act of writing is actually a form of movement: words pass
from the brain and travel through the fingertips and spill onto the page. Sentences move across the screen and grow into paragraphs. It has rhythm and momentum. It takes you places.
A writer, consequently, is a loner of sorts. I'm not sure all writers are loners, but as for me, I can attest to having this trait since birth. I have always been happiest when left alone with my thoughts. I don't seek people out, nor do I enjoy large
gatherings or being the center of attention.
I am by nature an introvert, an observer, a thinker. I live inside my head. I am oversensitive to my environment; so much
so, that I sometimes grow dizzy when engaging all of my senses at once. I believe this is why I fear heights. Bridges, tall buildings, airplanes…you won't find me there. Solid earth is the collateral that secures me and allows me to let go of myself,
safely. My mind can travel freely, all
the while knowing that I am firmly planted on the ground, no matter how far away my thoughts take me.
So what does all this have to do with running? Bear with me...
One of the gifts of mid-lilfe is the ability to take a personal inventory and reflect on what you know to be true about yourself. I recently discovered that the things I have always wished to fix about myself are actually those things that I most like about myself. Despite knowing a large assortment of fascinating and wonderful people, I prefer my own company (although I have become very skilled at feigning congeniality with the enthusiasm of an extrovert when the need arises.)
I hate being idle, so I am a major drag on family vacations or anything that requires me to be leisurely.
I like movement and nature. Gravity is my friend. I
love to gather my thoughts, yet become tongue-tied when trying to
speak them aloud. I’m an odd chick; a
freak of nature; an enigma and a world unto myself.
Is it no wonder then that at the heart of my nature: movement,
introspection, the earth...that I would someday find my peace in running? It was a logical evolution, yet one that took me many years to discover. Running, it turns out, is a peaceful sanctuary for people like me.
Now I don't mean running on a conveyor belt. Although I do own a pretty fancy treadmill, it solely exists as a last resort. It is not really running to me. My zen comes from inhaling the fresh air and the musky scent of the earth. I love to feel the wind whipping through my hair and the peace that comes from moving through a cathedral of trees. The introvert in me loves the time alone with my thoughts, with only my shadow to keep me company. The wanderer in me loves the sight of a slow river in my peripheral vision as my body moves along a solitary, diverging path to nowhere. This is where I have found my peace...finally.
