This afternoon, I picked my pace up, legs heavy and feet oddly light.
I said to myself, “a minute or two, breathe.”
I felt the lifting up of my feet over knotted up roots bursting through the granite paved trail.
There was a moment I wondered who may be watching. Me, the fast walker turned awkward jogger longed for a trail in a forest, not a planned community of homes.
Still, I sprinted in a way a woman over sixty does and then I slowed feeling even though I was walking again,
My walking was making a greater difference than before.
I’ve been doing some bravery required things, things like being 62 and running again.
Who decides it’s too late, too long avoided to try again…
To run the way you’d run if you’d decided you could way back then?
I think I’ll pick it up again tomorrow.
I saw myself three years ago, lighter in disposition, easier in my movement and somehow optimistic in expression.
Again, I shall be less weighed down again.
A minute ago, I read something that felt like betrayal. I’m moving on, letting that go.
Setting my gaze steady and thinking about moving this body of mine forward and less weighted down.