The Gift from Above

“Please let it rain,” I whispered to myself as I walked to my car.

Knowing I was heading home to run–and having passed the better part of a week doing so in thick humidity–I welcomed the possibility of moisture from the heavens. Just the night before, I headed out after 9 PM and the temperature was still pushing 90°. The two days before that, the heat index had reached triple digits.

Noticing dark clouds in the southwestern sky, I humbly requested a break from the blast furnace.

You see, a few miles to myself has tremendous cleansing power. I imagine every runner would tell you the same, whether they head out in a group or alone. Something about the rhythmic motion calms the psychic seas and soothes physical tension.

Further, I find it difficult to believe there is someone out there without a concept of perfect conditions for their meditative mile. The personal nature of this exercise–a primitive dance with Mother Earth herself–invites each individual to find their own means to achieve the endorphin-laced nirvana known as “runner’s high”.

For me, a light rain and 70° temperatures is ideal.

The peaceful tympany of raindrops tapping gently against my skin and my surroundings amplifies the catharsis I seek when I leave the house. Thus, I felt a small measure of joy when I noticed the first spots on the pavement around three-quarters of a mile. Within a few dozen yards, a steady rain had set in.

I grinned at my answered prayer.

Soaked to the skin as I neared a mile and a half, I smiled and thought “I only meant a little,” and then pressed on to complete my four-plus mile course. A short time later, I passed a Methodist church on the familiar route to my favorite park with its sign flashing

Every good and perfect gift comes from above… James 1:17, NIV

I chuckled at this reply and contemplated how those words resonated beyond the pavement I was pounding and into my life as a whole. Strangely, I hearkened back to similar ideas from dissimilar works.

A snippet from Zen and the Art of Happiness reminded me that “every event that befalls you is absolutely the best possible thing that could occur–that there is no other event imaginable that could benefit you to any greater degree.” Then, my mind rolled delicately into the words of Friedrich Nietzsche, the infamous line that “What does not kill me makes me stronger.”

The unexpected downpour could be framed as an inconvenience or an opportunity.

A day is infinitely simpler when you admit it could be better, then set about to make the most of it anyway. So, I had a chance to test my fitness in air 20° cooler than normal, lacking oppressive sunshine overhead. My stride remained fast longer and, since my core body temperature had not been elevated by the heat, I was able to do so with relative respiratory ease.

How often do we take advantage of surprises?

I had asked for rain.

I got more than I bargained for.

It didn’t “kill me” and I derived a greater “benefit” from the “gift”.

A good lesson for how we all might approach the present.

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Running into God

I recently picked up a new book.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running is novelist Haruki Marukami’s chronicle of a year spent examining the parallels and intersections of the two major disciplines of his life: running and writing.

As a deeply introspective person, I appreciate a window into a similar person’s mind.

Something about the rhythmic solitude of step after step points a telescope into the deep spaces of a person, promoting serious question-and-answer periods in the midst of rigorous physical demands.

In fact, I quit training for a marathon in the fall of 2005 because the long distances allowed my brain to ponder the unsavory experiences of a nasty breakup–cutting me to the bone again and again with every session on the road.

There’s something to be said, though, for the meditative nature of a run.

After reading ChiRunning by Danny Dreyer and Born To Run by Christopher McDougall, I’ve pushed myself out onto the pavement again. I’m rebuilding the daily habit of strapping on my Vibram FiveFingers KSO’s and–for the time being–working on refining my running style to be as efficient and effortless as possible.

Yesterday, I decided to take it slow.

Tuesday morning, I burst through the woods of a nearby park at a pretty good clip. I had a brief period to squeeze in a run before work and decided to increase my stride length to see if I could maintain the proper foot speed.

To put it plainly, it felt awesome. My legs seemed to be moving without much prompting from my head, sweeping me along faster than I’d anticipated.

However, since I had to get ready for work, I’d forgotten to budget a few minutes to stretch and I paid the price.

My tense calves groaned at me to go easy and cement my cadence further as I closed the front door behind me yesterday evening.

I focused intently on “one-two-one-two” very well for about 1.5 miles, aided by the metronome track I created using Audacity. I loped along unconcerned with speed, using short strides to perfect technique instead of racing the world.

After ten minutes, I shifted over to my “Rock Exercise” playlist.

My custom is to concentrate on keeping rhythm using my own tunes after a “mental warm-up.” I’ll run to music long before I’ll ever stride through a race with only a droning beep in my ears. And, regardless of the exercise, I always look for a thumping beat to energize me.

First up on the MP3 player was “The Little Things” by Danny Elfman, then eventually “Your Time Has Come” by Audioslave and “Elevation” by U2.

Inspiration struck.

I felt a pull to stretch my legs a bit and see how much ground I could cover as Bono blared in my ears.

I resisted at first.

I was intent on holding tempo and–being in the hilliest part of the park–concerned the terrain would upset my gentle “right-left-right-left” canter.

Then I felt an instinctive push to “Let it go.”

Thankfully, I trusted the impulse.

My body kicked into gear and just went. Whatever happened would happen and I was content knowing so. My mind became a jockey riding a thoroughbred body at full gallop.

My soul began to sing.

I hit a chorus and nearly screamed “El-ev-a-tion!” at the top of my lungs, barely holding back so as to avoid disturbing other visitors.

I cut through the park like a flash of lightning through a Spring sky.

Tight corners were negotiated easily. I waved cheerfully to every lifeform I sped past. I simultaneously smiled brightly as my eyes welled with tears.

I felt “one” again.

The first time, in December of 2006, I’d been overcome with emotion at St Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City. I walked through the doors and meandered around until my heart suddenly swelled up.

I had managed to wander into God’s presence.

In an instant, I became fully aware of a long-forgotten truth. Unlike any church before or since, I was fully “in His house,” no longer alone or hurting.

It shook me to the core.

I stepped outside and wept as I typed text messages to close friends and family about “the most beautiful building” I’d ever seen. As undeniable as the sun rising in the East, I reconnected ever briefly with what created me.

I can only describe it as a boundless and timeless ecstasy.

In all its power, it brings forth immediate and disembodied humility. You understand with utter certainty the complete failure of your frail little form in representing your immenseness.

I believe the French call this joie de vivre, the unending and uncontainable happiness of life. It is being–the thundering outflow of the eternal force of love and creation.

It’s an unforgettable spiritual homecoming.

And for a blissful minute or two yesterday afternoon, I was there again, playing like a child as I flew along the sidewalk.

I went out for a run and dissolved into the wind.

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