Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Flow

On Saturdays/Sundays, I have a real hard time getting out the door for my runs much before two in the p.m. Back home this didn't pose the same problem, at least not on Sundays, when Pa & I would meet up at good ol' Third Place Books/Bothell for the week's long run. In the morning. At like eight. (Er, one half of us. The other half would show a bit later--so as to permit the other some qt time w/ the Sunday news, ahem.)

Anyway, when the day's half gone and I still haven't laced up and hit the FDR, things go sour fast. I put it off even more, until finally I'm w/o choice. Go now or go back to picking lint out of the hairdryer, an activity that, while satisfying in the short-term, leaves me feeling spiritually vacant in the end. Not running, though. No siree. Running's my church service, at least for now. Talking to myself in this manner is usually enough to get me going, and as most any runner will attest, I'm never the worse for it.

This was how it went down last Sunday. I believe it was five o'clock before I finally kicked my ass into gear, and I wasn't feeling any too positive. When I wait this long I worry about stomach stuff--digestive troubles, if you will. That's the great thing about running in the a.m.--no irksome churning to contend w/. Oh well. I started in, slugging through the first half mile or so (typical) before eventually falling into a comfortable pace. Approaching the one-mile mark, I had a choice--same choice I always have: Do I turn right at Delancey and make it a bridge run, or do I stay the straight course and experience the same old things (sportsfields, sealpark, the seaport, stinky ex-fishmarket) for the gatrillionth time? Surprising myself, I took the right.

I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn--a stretch I covered frequently when we were living over there on Division. I came out on, what is that street, Driggs? Or that one that starts w/ an R? At any rate, I headed north on Driggs, where I would remain for the duration. The sun was starting to tuck down, the buildings on the Manhattan side of the river--glass and metal sparkling--still registering its effects. I was feeling strong--breathing was on, movement was effortless--and soon enough that pleasing sense of calm, almost sedating, laid claim on my brain. I rode it out.

Since talking in depth w/ Dr. Dietrich, I'm more aware of the mental stuff, acutely aware of the moment (okay, not quite that precise, but) when the proverbial left brain shifts rightward--toward looser, less harnessed thought. I can hear the gears readjusting, clicking into place. And when they do, everyday concerns fall to the wayside and I'm free to experience my surroundings in a more conceptual, less analytical way, to admire some object--a brownstone, a parkbench, a tree--w/o dwelling on why exactly it is I'm struck. One scene unfolds into the next, no hard boundaries, and it all just works. It feels sometimes like I'm fast-forwarding through a dozen movies at once, like I'm being treated to transitory representations of all these different lives, people... And it's not jarring, but fluid and natural--an even, logical succession. It occasionally brings on a sense of elation, giving me a 'you're so lucky to be able to see like this' impression.

I don't remember exactly where I turned around, but I'm pretty sure Greenpoint was well behind me. The trip back into Manhattan was smooth, and the air light and a tinge sweet. As I rounded a small park, it occurred to me that what I was sensing was no less than... spring! Not spring according to the calendar (again, this was last w/e), not spring according to the temperature readout (mid-30s), but spring all the same, vaguely and intuitively. If I strained hard enough, I swear I could even hear the buzz of a lawnmower. (Oh wow, if that isn't spring to me.)

For all my griping about putting off my runs 'til late in the day, the evening hours make for a great runner's high. The best kind, I think. There's just something about dusk, about being present for the day's descent into night. It sets the tone, insisting on quieter voices (um, even here) and softer faces. As an innocent passerby, I get to watch as folks behind restaurant windows sit down to a bottle of wine, couples hold hands and swing arms as they stroll down the sidewalk, clusters of friends chat discreetly on front stoops, laughing over some inside joke...

At some point on my way back, smiling to myself like a fool, I wound up questioning my decision to ever leave Brooklyn. Parts of this borough are so full of charm, and so like a real home. The absence of skyscrapers; kids whacking balls around on sportsfields; Popsicle Joe looping his jolly little showtunes...

Maybe one of these days. We've still got a good few in us, after all.

Posted by princess kanomanom @ 1:04 PM