Running Towards Our Sacred Spaces

"And there's a place that I've dreamed of
Where I can free my mind
I hear the sounds of the season
and lose all sense of time"
 - Coastline, by Hollow Coves

Before my foot hit the rock, I’d been thinking deeply about sacred spaces. 

Running has long been a vital thing for me. It's a raw connection between the body and mind; first, deciding how far to run, then seeing how my body feels on that day as I set out, and often pushing myself to complete the miles as planned. There is pace and control, aches and determination, strength and exhaustion and freedom. For me, it's a stress release. In Ecuador, I have many memories of coming home from a rough day, especially after visiting the women in prostitution. I'd feel sad, helpless, and angry, so once home I'd turn around and run out the door. Even a quick two-mile burst was helpful to process and release churning emotions. In the US, when the shelter in place order came earlier this year, running became even more necessary. Some days it was the only time I'd leave the house and see other people. I recently explained how alive running makes me feel, and how needful it has become for my overall health. 

"It's your airplane oxygen mask," came the insightful observation. Yes: before I can help someone put on their mask, I have to put on mine, according to every pre-flight instruction. In order to help others, I have to take time for my own wholeness, and running is a part of that. 

There's a kind of ritual to the practice of running as well. There are the shoes, which I've found through trial and error don't leave my feet numb or sore, and the clothes, and the braiding of my hair. There's the music or podcast pumping into my ears. The preparation for an upcoming race. The decision of when to run and how far. As the days shorten, I've switched mainly from evening runs to getting up early. I find I prefer to set out when it's dark and return home with the sunrise rather than be making my way back at nightfall. 

When I find a trail I love, such as the one along the lake near my apartment, it becomes a sacred space. That morning, I acknowledged this while taking time during my run to give thanks. I paused my music and mentally began a list of "thank you for ...". 

It's another ritual, even while the things I think up may be mundane. 

"Thank you for a clear morning, thank you for a beautiful running trail, thank you for health, music, coffee, clean drinking water, a soft bed, family, friends, coworkers, a steady job, interests, abilities, books, writing, movies, fresh fruit, red wine, poetry, dessert, strong lungs, shared experiences, laughter, comfort, growth, love." 

Sometimes I also pray for people by name, though often I simply say “Be with them”, letting a divine silence fill in the rest. I offer up prayers like paper lanterns, released with both hands open as they travel upwards, full of light. We could discuss whether or not prayer does any good, or is worth believing in or not, yet for whatever else may be, I find in myself that the simple practice of supplication works in me a goodness of spirit. 

Before my foot hit the rock, I'd been internally narrating these thoughts on sacred spaces. I had reached two miles and turned around, when my foot hit a rock and down I went. I completely bit it, sprawling in the dirt. I sat up and checked myself; a few small scrapes on my leg and hand but nothing bad. (I'd find more scrapes on my hip and arm when I showered an hour later). I dusted off and continued onwards. I was about three-quarters of a mile away when I realized my key was missing. 

Black plastic, coded to my front door, with a replacement cost of $50. I turned around. 

I kept my eyes on the trail all the way back, searching. I reached the spot where I remembered falling. My eyes raked the ground, but there was no key in sight. I walked up and down the general area, unable to pinpoint an exact location and not seeing the key anywhere. Better text my sister and let her know to let me in, then hurry home and avoid making her late. I was about to give up and text her, when there it was; my key, sitting among the grass and strewn leaves at the edge of the trail. 

"Thank you thank you thank you," I breathed, heaving a sigh of both relief and surprise. I kept the key clutched in my fist for the rest of the way home.

I shared the story with my sister while logging into my work computer. It was Monday, and first thing on Monday I have to send out a series of data reports. Dirt still clung to me, but I finished the reports before taking a quick shower. It was later that morning when I recalled the feeling of sacred spaces, and how finding the key among the leaves also felt like a holy thing. You can call it what you like, yet that's how it felt; like a boon, planned and given to me even while I was streaked in dirt. 

I wrote this in snatches, tapping a few thoughts into my phone between work projects before sitting down at lunch to write it out for good. I have a life-long habit of narrating events in my head, so while running, I knew I'd type this out at some point. Writing is another airplane-mask practice for me. Running and thanks and writing; rituals and holiness and sacred spaces. Falling and getting back up.  Running a mile and a half more than planned. Finding a key and holding it tight. Holding onto some things so tight, and others, like paper lanterns, released with open palms. All pieces of a whole, all whole and free.