Running

Okay, I'm not running yet. Not the way I used to run, as if a mad dog were racing after me, nipping at my heels; not as if I'd be discovered to be not quite as smart, not quite as agile, not quite as strong as I thought.

No, I'm not running like that yet. But I have been on the track. And the best part is that I am flying! Not in the feet yet, but in the memory of how I used to run and in the sprint pieces I do in between the race-walking and the jogging. Once in 2.5 or 3.0 miles, I do it. I can't help myself. Thighs pumping, calves thrumming, feet flexing in that fabulous fulcrum, and lungs finding their own pace. I have actually taken off. Just a bit. Not like I have in my glory days. But I am not done yet. There is still so much more and the great news is this; it feels intoxicating to develop it again, to find it, to discover it is still there waiting.

Running was never my ultimate; but how many ballerina masters are in my years and the floor so unforgiving, and the satin shoe with the wooden block that you dance upon is also unforgiving to aging. So there are many styles of dancing. I will still dance. But will I ever spin on the top of a point shoe, my arms lifted? I don't know about that.

But running. It is an instinct. So it may transcend age to a degree. We have nightmares of paralysis, frozen in space and our hearts thunder in our heads. But what if you could still do it - run flat out - the way you run when you have to catch the baby falling or the way your run after your true love or the way you run just to push the verdant earth under your sole, moving the planet. Ah, that is the treasure. So I am it. Again.

Happy at the track.
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