This week, the twenty-third since the lockdown began, was marked by a single day that reminded me that cool weather is more than just theoretically possible. I had forgotten what it was like to step outside, take a few deep breaths, and feel weightless relief. I remembered that I had sweaters and long pants in my closet: so often this summer I would see these clothes and ask myself why I had ever bought such useless things. But now I reconsidered: was it possible that I might actually want to wear them again? Maybe someday. When I went out on that one perfect morning, it was like running without a twenty-five pound jacket I hadn't even realized I was wearing. And even though I was disappointed when the heat returned one day later (just like the weather people said it would), it wasn't so bad, because I had some new evidence that this condition was temporary, or at least not infinite.
I've never practiced meditation of any kind, but from what I've read about it, I like to think that running -- and especially distance running -- is not completely dissimilar. The focus on breathing, the absence of thought that somehow increases the intensity of concentration, the awareness of your body and the idea that whatever discomfort (short of intense pain, which is a different story) or pleasure you experience is temporary: all of this applies to running. Even the thing about holding your middle finger and thumb together applies to running, albeit when you run it's better to very loosely hold your index finger against your thumb. When I was running in college, a sprinter friend told me to imagine holding a potato chip in this manner without breaking it, which is a lesson I've never forgotten.
I suspect that running, in a way, is a diluted form of meditation, but I'm old enough to admit that not everything has to be pure to be effective.
This week, thanks to the cooler weather day, I also spent more time in the garden.
One of the exciting developments this year has been the arrival of a praying mantis. A friend of ours spotted an egg case last winter and then I saw a very small praying mantis a few months ago. (Are they called babies? And can they be interchanged with human babies? Human couple: 'We were having trouble conceiving and so we adopted this baby instead.') Now there's an older and much bigger praying mantis, an adult (I think?), perfectly camouflaged in the leaves of the Japanese maple (and a columnar pin-oak sapling I started from an acorn a few years ago).
I was also happy to see the native begonia bloom. It's a small flower, but at this time of year, expectations are low.
My expectations are also low for the world outside (and for myself). There's a lot happening and not happening.
No matter how hard I look, everything seems a little blurry. I always feel like the outside world is moving at a different pace than I am, which is something I've learned to accept.
Watching the world (and myself) change, in other words, is another kind of distance running.
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