In Motion

A broken blanket of white shrouds the world around her as she makes her way out into the early morning silence. At the edge of escaping this world, on the verge of caving in, she does the only thing she knows to do… she moves. Often, simply finding motion is enough, a change of scenery, a change of space, anything to keep the blood flowing. Sometimes she has been able to find groomed trails, her course smooth and easy, built for running, and she has been able to move with abandon, fast and free. In these times she reaches goals, climbs mountains, exists within her dreams. In these times, she runs for the sake of running, for the thrill of being alive, simply to feel the sun on her face, a gentle breeze guiding her in celebration.

At other times she feels trapped and runs for her life, escaping as she is today, as she did yesterday, and the day before… As she wanders into the dimness she can hear the echoes of other such runs, voices calling to her, reminding her of failed attempts at breaking free. At these times the road is rough, uneven, strewn with pieces of her heart, with scattered shells of broken dreams, with hazards and traps and the lies people tell. Often she navigates the path on her knees, unable to rise above the anguish and devastation. Crawling through the landmines, pulling herself up when she can, moving uneasily, unsteadily, she is focused only on the step she can take. Anything to stop hurting. In the quiet cold of morning, she is drawn to contemplation, and the pattern of her history creeps into her consciousness. As she walks unseen in the darkness before dawn, she begins to see that location is not the ghost which haunts her, the answer isn’t found by starting over elsewhere. Relief, she understands, will only come by truly centering herself again and by standing within her pain, accepting it and allowing it to move beyond her on its own.

Her life has too often been about turning the page. She wonders if perhaps she should linger a bit more with each one, taking time to truly absorb the words, the moments. If she lived a while longer on the page, maybe she would begin to understand the story. Rather than rushing to the climax of each event, pausing instead to savor the depth of each chapter slowly, feeling the pain as well as the love, maybe then this book, this world would make more sense. Maybe then she wouldn’t keep re-learning the lessons. Her past is littered with roadmaps, each one an ill-equipped guide for finding her way home, unable to lead her beyond the struggle. She knows that geography isn’t the issue. Yesterday found her touching down briefly in three counties, only to find the same aching sense of isolation, stronger each time she landed. Silently she acknowledges that the answer won’t be found by moving on, the fears and frustrations faithfully follow. Solace will be found by moving within, by embracing the emptiness, and opening to possibilities. To this place there is no roadmap, instinct will be her guide. Gently she relaxes her grip on the page, and in letting go she finds comfort, releasing it to turn in its own time, knowing all will be as it should.