running at night

i love running at night. even in the winter. there is something about moving under the cover of darkeness, under the stars that is both mysterious and liberating all at the same time.

there are some places on the bikepath where i have run many, many evenings; most, under the stress of some sort of writing deadline so that the grass literally holds words and phrases for me from these past escapes until i come back to visit them the next time. i guess these are an essay in and of themselves.

my favorite paths are the rougher grassy banks a bit farther from campus. i've also had lots of coversations with god in these places, asking him/her a variety of things, most of them preceeded by shouting or help! or what!!? other sorts of frusterated utterances. but whenever i go back and stop, breath, unplugg my ipod if i have it on, and listen, and yes, look at the stars, i feel that these conversations are not one way. it is good to remember to talk about thanks, to talk about joy, to talk about how something small went right that in the day.

writing all this makes me think about the poet mary oliver. somehow, i've just discovered her through a women and worship class i'm auditing at ou. anyway, she's good to slow yourself down and say thank you. i encouarge everyone to check out her why i wake early collection of poetry.

i'll leave you with one of them:



Bone
1.
Understand, I am always trying to figure outwhat the soul is,and where hidden,and what shape –
and so, last week,when I found on the beachthe ear boneof a pilot whale that may have died
hundreds of years ago, I though tmaybe I was closeto discovering something –for the ear bone
2.
is the portion that lasts longest in any of us, man or whale; shapedlike a squat spoon with a pink scoop where
once, in the lively swimmer’s head,it joined its two sistersin the house of hearing,it was only
two inches long –and thought: the soulmight be like this –so hard, so necessary –
3.
yet almost nothing.Beside methe gray seawas opening and shutting its wave-doors,
unfolding over and overits time-ridiculing roar;I looked but I couldn’t see anythingthrough its dark-knit glare;
yet don’t we all know, the golden sandi s there at the bottom,though our eyes have never seen it,nor can our hands ever catch it
4.
lest we would sift it down into fractions, and facts –certainties –and what the soul is, also
I believe I will never quite know.Though I play at the edges of knowing,truly I know our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving,which is the way I walked on ,softly,through the pale-pink morning light.
~ Mary Oliver ~

(Why I Wake Early, 2004)