|I ran toward the sun, I ran to be happy, I ran against the grief,
I ran to forget, I ran against my anger, I ran for my life.
I was. When I ran, there was no time: there was only my body, my breath,
the trees and hills and sky, the birds and chipmunks and squirrels, the cold
or hot and cool air, the rain on my hat and face, the white and silent
motions of snow. The rhythm of running and deep breathing soothed mysoul,
the landscapes and weather thrilled it. I always felt grateful, but I
did not know it was gratitude, and so I never thanked God, or the leaves,
or air, or my legs.
Up until that September morning.
The world turned around itself once,
and with it my leg.
It didn’t run anymore.
My life stood still.
Without running, I didn’t exist.
Eight years ago, a car hit me. In September the surgeon cut off my left leg.
Four years ago I had a bike accident.
My right ankle was shattered into thousands of pieces.
I mourn this, and I sing in gratitude for loving this, and in gratitude for all the roads I ran on,
for the hills I climbed and descended, for trees and grass and sky, and for being spared loosing
running sooner than I did: ten years sooner, or eight seasons, or three; or one day.
Now I ride my bike and experience life in a different way.
Time to accept life in a wheelchair. Some days in fall and spring, I push myself around the church parking lot...
my chair I sing with him, and shadowbox and dance.
Why would anyone live on this earth and not run on it?
A country road song. Mediations from a movable chair.
|dorothee deiss photography|
|as if nothing happened
|who would live
on this earth and not run on it
|you’ll never be alone|
|on the effortlessness of crossing borders
|beyond the field
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