When I first started running a few weeks ago, I made it a mile.
Then, it was two miles.
This past weekend, it was three miles.
Okay, really, it’s a mix of jogging and walking. But the stretches of jogging have been getting longer and longer. I fix my eyes on a point ahead of me and say, That far. Make it that far and that’s enough for now.
But then I get there and I feel that I can go on. Just a little farther.
And then I get there, and I feel that I can still go on.
This is how I’ve been running farther and farther.
I don’t tell myself that I’m going to run three miles. I break it up into small chunks. I go at a reasonable pace.
Normally, my thoughts are directed externally. Driving, writing, teaching, talking, fixing dinner, cleaning. My thoughts go ahead of me and my body follows. But when I run, my thoughts turn inward. My body goes first and my thoughts follow. It’s a different way of occupying myself. I think about right now, the pavement, what’s coming up ahead, how I’m feeling. Is it soreness? Is it fatigue? Or is it pain?
If it’s soreness–move on.
If it’s fatigue–slow down.
If it’s pain–stop.
What has always bothered me about running is the breathing. If I run too quickly and can’t get my breath, what kind of a workout is that? I don’t want to burn out before I really have a chance to run. As long as I can breathe, I reason, I can keep going.
So I settle on a slower pace.
And it still works my heart.
It’s kind of poetic, maybe even romantic–this notion of working your heart.
Because that’s how I would describe love: It works your heart. It stretches it. It breaks it. It mends it and makes it.
But none of that happens unless you’re willing to see how far your heart takes you. Maybe it keeps pace as you go down the long path. Maybe it cries out in pain and your journey is cut short. Maybe it brings you back to a path you abandoned long ago, once you have the strength to travel it.
But no matter how far you’ve run, you’ve still moved forward.
As I run, my heart works. And works. It works overtime. It beats and beats beyond what I thought it could handle.
And this is good.
As I slow to a walk, I feel the endorphins surge, a warm wave washing over me. I pull off my gloves and let my fingers cool against the winter air. I unzip my jacket and the wind rushes in. My breathing slows. My heart slows and slows until it’s beating as softly as it would if I were asleep.
But it has not stopped.
This is the feeling I long for–the feeling of a warm river flowing through me. A pillar of warmth, of energy, reaching down into my heart before pouring out of me like a fountain.
This is that light feeling, as if I am helium rising, tethered to the physical world only by this body.
This is spiritual, a kind of alive that no word approaches.
But it only comes if you work the heart.