But even the rote
hours deliver the surging moments. Ideas surface, endorphins rise,
strides lengthen. (And doilies sell. Just maybe?) Somewhere in the plod
after plod, you begin to feel strong where you once felt lame. Somewhere
in these everyday hours, the dull staleness morphs into a brilliant
stillness. And you cling to it like desert icicles. Who cares that it
always melts away? It's magic while it lasts.
Every now and then in the plod after plod, the legs stop feeling like bricks. You look down to see a rushing ground. You sprint. You smile. You wonder--is this how it feels to float? The drudgery may be back tomorrow or maybe by mile seven, but for now, you are no longer lonely. You are no longer bored. You are as alive in your own life as a person gets to be.
Every now and then in the plod after plod, the legs stop feeling like bricks. You look down to see a rushing ground. You sprint. You smile. You wonder--is this how it feels to float? The drudgery may be back tomorrow or maybe by mile seven, but for now, you are no longer lonely. You are no longer bored. You are as alive in your own life as a person gets to be.
And this. This is why you keep running. Or selling
doilies. Or mothering. Or doing whatever it is in life that you do.
Because in every faceless desolate
step-after-step minute,
there is a chance to find a
desert icicle,
to be surprised by speed or
astonished by stillness,
and to feel
so
very much alive.
::
I have no idea where the doilies reference came from. The running, yes, because it's the only darn thing I seem to do these days. But doilies. Really? I have to blame the doilies on Heather, since she's the one who started this whole Just Write nonsense. (And I love her for it.)
Your prose is like poetry, my dear, doilies and all. Hope you and your family are having a wonderful 2014 so far. xo
ReplyDeleteSuch an enjoyable read this morning as I stare down the weekend of low temps + snow. I would stop to at least chat with you while you were selling doilies :)
ReplyDelete