A morning run in a new year

Much like writing or listening to music, running is therapeutic for me. Yet there was a time when that activity wasn’t a priority in my daily life. So for a year now, I’ve been devoting time to running a few days every week. I’m not training for anything; I’m merely nurturing a renewed will to live, acting on a desire to care for myself. A morning run tends to be the most satisfying, but I’m also someone who enjoys slow mornings of nothing. And in the winter, it’s especially convenient to shrug off a morning run because I can always tell myself it’s too cold.

Recently, on a chilly winter morning, I decided to ignore my excuses and commit to an early run. I bundled up and told myself to run with no goal in mind, other than enduring a cold morning. I would run until my body decided it had  enough.  

See, there’s something about the way sunlight hits me alongside the chill of winter in the air, I inhale and exhale a new day as I gain momentum along the river trail. I mean, I’m grateful for the movement provided by my limbs and after a while I sense my heart is uncaged, beating with every step. 

Before my run, a friend sent a text saying, “Watch out for ice,” and I know she means the accumulation of water in its solid state, frozen to the ground that my shoes will hit with forceful impact step by step, risking injury if I’m not careful. But I wonder if she’s also saying watch out for the accumulation of fascism’s masked cowards, kidnapping children and civilians off the streets and sending them to concentration camps and my brown skin puts me at risk of being targeted. It’s all too much to consider so I keep moving, and I watch my step as history repeats itself. Running keeps me immersed in the present, which means I’m embracing another day of american authoritarianism. Just like the state remains diligent as an oppressive force, we on the ground must remain resiliently creative in our resistance movements. 

On the ground a few miles in, the train passes me, it’s a mechanical beast that feeds on repeating history for wide-eyed visitors. The passengers onboard smile and wave and in this transient exchange, they look unweighted by the world but maybe I’m projecting, maybe I’m wishing I was only visiting because there’s a heartache to being rooted somewhere and bearing witness to families separated and neighbors attacked by the settler state’s secret police. I mean, I check my watch for the distance spanned and I’m four miles in but losing steam. I need to work on pacing myself better. It’s easy to start strong but eventually all that energy burns away and now I need to make my way back home while momentum is fading. My shirt and hoodie absorb all the sweat that winter is wringing out of me and I don’t want to give up my stride. I begin thinking about how pacing oneself in movement is comparable to the work it takes to stay involved with community organizing. I’m not an organizer at all, but I show up and offer support when I can. The Black philosopher Cornel West often talks about the importance of remaining long-distance runners in the struggle for justice. In other words, liberation is a life’s work. How do you square that outlook with the fire-alarm sense of urgency that people feel when confronting injustice? How do we keep the fire going for those innumerable dark days ahead? On an individual level, I’m still figuring that out while listening to the rhythmic tapping of my footsteps. 

To prevent achingly sore legs the next day, I finish a run with some light jogging. That ritual didn’t happen until a few months ago. I’m continually finding a balance between pushing myself and being gentle with myself. The sun beams against my back and I’m coming around to the realization that it’s not about measuring our days with victories and defeats because there will be many losses in the days ahead. Instead, I measure my days by the small acts of joy and sustained rebellion that unfold in our shared survival. On this recent run, I went farther than I have in a while. It’s a trivial but meaningful milestone. I slow down to catch my breath, and the moment of joy catches my heart. The sky above remains brushed blue, brighter than it should be. I find mercy in the impossible morning light.