We run in the dark:
Just me and T, our feet slapping the wet pavement.
We run through quiet streets still aglow with holiday lights. Bright orbs as big as pumpkins bob from the trees — a neighborhood tradition — and as they sway gently in the six-o’clock dark, their reflections shimmer in the puddles.
And my body hurts, but suddenly it occurs to me that I feel completely and totally alive.
It seems fitting, to be writing about running today. When I first began this little series, some twenty-nine days ago, I was writing about running, then, too. And now, the circle is beginning to close.
And I’m tired.
As I round the last bend toward the hill I call home, I’m tired.
I’m tired of December and its rush of parties and events and food and drink.
I’m tired of writing.
And a lot of other things too big to put into such a small post.
But this is the kind of exhaustion that feels good, somehow, if only because it proves, in its way, that I’m living.
And I don’t question the feeling.
I slow to a walk as I make my way up the hill to my house. In the waterglimmer, the little bicycle-spoke lights I’ve laced into my running shoes glow in the dark:
Left foot blue.
Right foot red.
My footsteps are slow now. My hair is a mess, my breaths ragged, but that’s okay. I accept the messiness as something beautiful in and of itself.
I accept the tiredness as something beautiful, in and of itself.
I accept my aging body as something beautiful, in and of itself.
I accept … myself.
I go home and I take a hot shower.
In my little writing room, I sit down and write a messy blog post, and I accept that messiness, too.
I unlace the bicycle-spoke lights from my sneakers and switch them on in my palm.
Their glow is so small, but still: I’m switching on lights in the dark…
And for today, that’s enough. ❤