I went out reluctantly. I’d negotiated with myself yesterday, when I’d planned to run and then wriggled my way out of it, that I would run today. No exceptions. No excuses. And yet when I finally set out, I nearly turned immediately back, running a loop around our parking lot and pausing at our apartment door before finally pushing myself onward.
And suddenly, the sky was on fire. And though I’d set out forging a trail of least resistance, twisting and turning depending on what sidewalks were clear, I started running towards it. Through the snow, tiptoeing on ice. Get there, I kept telling myself. Get to the place where you know the cookie-cutter suburban housetops clear away and you can fully drink it in. Get there.
Nothing else had ever seemed so important. And so my unremarkable three-miler instantly turned into a half hour journey rife with need, sweat, and metaphor. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, I didn’t make it to the sky in time—she had long released her purples and golds and embers and radiance when I made it to the clearing.
But I had at least glimpsed her from afar, in fragmentation, in hope. I had at least known she was there. And I at least know there’s something worth running toward.