Monday, September 06, 2010
I do not wish to be a runner - only to move without the ponderous weighing-down of every step ending. I wondered, attempting to jog yesterday, when my steps had become so deliberate, when years back I had flown. I ran barefoot, a sprinter, the body of little concern, my focus on the air flow around me.
Still, yesterday between every other set of lamp posts, I worked a slow jog that was differentiated from my brisk walk only in intent. My heart recognized the distinction, and sped up; my breath deepened. By the end of the walk/jog mile I had become more sure, but kept looking at my moving feet, willing them to lightness. 'I am strong,' I told myself at one point - and then felt it to be true.
It was only not-true if I placed myself as a critic, observer - the wrong perspective entirely.
I will each day tell myself about grace and wholeness; not the paring-away of all not-me, these unwanted pounds, but becoming in the same way that Michelangelo carved away all not-David, or not-Pieta. No Pieta, I still own some grace and speed and joy, and work to claim it every day. What else? In each of us, those qualities are intrinsic, not external; emergent, not bestowed.