For weeks, I’ve sort of lost one image of myself and adopted another. That is, the woman who is training has taken over the woman who runs. The woman who runs is my energy source and true inner being. The woman who runs chugs out miles as a flowing mystic transcendental phenomenon. The training woman is worried and sometimes runs stupidly just to meet a goal.
This morning, I read that Supbraha Beckjord has a hip injury and is struggling this year with the 3,100 mile self transcendence race. Yet she is still doing about 30 miles a day. Yet she still has 650 miles to go. On the same page, was a picture of Sri Chinmoy in winter running suit, chugging out his miles. I feel bad for Supbraha, yet I yearn for the meditative running of Sri Chinmoy.
My soul needs the comfort and peace of running for enlightenment. My body does not need the stress of training. Coupled with the uncertainty of my living location, training seems a little nonsensical at the moment. While meditative running is something I desperately need.
I don’t need to make any decisions. I’m just in favor of running as seems natural to me and not pressuring myself. Tomorrow, I plan a 10 miler out into the netherworld of corn and soybeans, flat dirt roads and early morning humidity. It is out there, alone, that I touch the love and come home happy.
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