Pounding Pavement

Today marked an important day for me.  It was the first spring day that I was able to get back on the pavement and run.  Yesterday, I did a 10k at the gym, and every single mile felt like … well, every single mile.  There’s something so boring and awful about running on a treadmill.  It’s not even the running.  It’s that the scenery doesn’t change.  There are only so many times I can imagine I’m somewhere else, and only so many gym folks to look at until I want to pull out my hair.

So, after a much needed reorganization of the feng shui in my space, I set out for a run.  Wasn’t sure how far I’d make it, coming off of 6.2 miles yesterday, but I knew I needed the sun in my face, the wind on my cheeks.  Without realizing it, I found myself in Bond Hill, which seems to happen quite often on my runs.  I paused for a moment to switch up my music (from Desert Dwellers to TI) and this gnarly old crack-head dude approached me asking for a cigarette.  Right, because a white chick in Bond Hill in running gear is clearly carrying a pack of cigarettes.  Shaking my head, I put my gloves back on and kept moving.  Bond Hill is a strange and weird place.

Making my way back to my hood, I came upon this window.  

This is part of a church that I’ve photographed on other runs, but for some reason this window really spoke to me today.  Maybe it’s because I spent so much of my day cleaning my own windows, or because I understand the duality that a window pane offers.  I’m not sure.  But, as I paused to photograph this, it occurred to me how nourishing running is for my life.  It’s not just a cardio exercise that keeps the numbers of the scale in check.  It is meditation, and prayer, and devotion all rolled into putting one foot in front of the other.