Each Thursday, join me for my once a week practice, Through the Glass Backwards. The title of this series came from my former commute into work, when I took the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually ended up facing backwards, watching as the city slipped by. Now that I work from home, these vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see as the world outside me lives its life, and I am fortunate enough to see, but not necessarily from the light rail window.
I had music playing in my ears. It was a beautiful evening. I nearly stopped to catch the sun setting, the red peeking through the tree limbs with are slowly becoming more and more bare. But, I kept going.
When I’m tired, I seem to notice every rise in the ground.
This run, there were a lot of them. I didn’t take any of our usual paths, instead cobbling together an hour long run. I struggled through much of it, especially the areas that I didn’t know as well. The hills, I worked to be grateful for the hills, to find a way up them without losing my breath entirely, and a way down them without tripping over broken sidewalks covered in yellow, orange, and red leaves.
I seemed to hit my stride when I reached areas I knew. I knew when to expect a rise and when I could coast down and enjoying the crunching under my feet.
What is it about places we know? How do expectations and known stories lend more stability? How do we break out of the moments we fight against what we don’t know? How do we keep reaching for areas that are uncomfortable?