Running Back
Loading ...“Faster! Faster!” I am not amused at this comment from the peanut gallery, the barked encouragement of a disheveled gentleman picking through a recycling bin. Who cares if I get any faster? I took up running again to exorcise my demons, to clear my mind. It’s meditation with an elevated heart rate. I need to hear “You’ll be ok!” or “Don’t worry, things always get better!” The goal is inner peace, not speed.
The stress of a cross-country move from the East Coast to Berkeley, a new job for my husband Jay, and the unexpected intensity of no-breaks parenthood had stretched the distance between us. It all came to a head last fall. Neither of us were sure if the marriage would make it. The past six months have been spent rebuilding a bridge to intimacy, two islands reaching out across a wide gulf. I started running for quietude, to let the beat of my heart calm the motion of my thoughts.
My feet keep moving, my mind wanders. I feel a burst of energy in the form of anger, this time at Jay: why did he mess with my equilibrium, my hard-won balance? “Why should I choose someone who hurts me,” I think, “I’ve got family to do that!” The moment passes as I push up the hill, one foot in front of the other. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat, my mind a blessed blank.
Our new bridge is of solid construction, the rusted out-struts replaced and repainted. But the still waters of my past, where love was sometimes indistinguishable from betrayal, are churning again.
Images cycle through my mind as I rush down the sidewalk. My brain tracks through old fights and nasty words. I am fifteen and my mother is explaining to me that I am evil, as matter-of-factly as if she were noting my eye color. After asking my father for some support for a fifth year of college, I open his handwritten reply, angry and accusatory, blaming me for a lifetime of unhappy employment. On the evening before my first wedding, I wait to hear from my mother. My phone calls have been unwelcome for months and she and Kevin, her long-time boyfriend, have threatened to boycott the ceremony.
Then the most recent snapshot: suspicious, I check my husband’s computer for signs of an inappropriate relationship with a married acquaintance. I find an e-mail trail of adolescent emotion and hopeful projection, Jay’s attempt to escape from the harshness of island life. It’s all talk and no action, thank God, but I’m flailing in murky waters now. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat.
Another hill. I make the slow climb to The Alameda against a backdrop of bungalows and sycamores. Other scenes drift past. Kevin is terminally ill. I visit the hospital every day after work and we reach a peace over the course of a long and painful goodbye. For four months I live near my father and step-mother. Despite the deep lows of his chronic depression, Dad makes a point of seeing me regularly. I take up writing and my mother supports my efforts full-force, even when her questionable parenting is the subtext.
I confront Jay and he drops everything, declares his love and deep regret. He cuts ties to the acquaintance. He lets me be angry. I accept my part in creating the distance. We begin to bridge the gulf.
As I continue my run, I feel love, imperfect but heartfelt. We do the best we can. I’m trying, too. Anger and neglect originate in pain, in good feelings twisted and misaligned. People who lash out, betray, or lie are suffering, too. I have to break this cycle in my own life. I have to forgive.
Jay’s indiscretion had disturbed my carefully controlled disposition. I hardly slept through the months of September and October, finally dropping off after midnight and waking a few hours later, mental waters churning. Long submerged memories were bobbing to the surface, the past mixing with the present. Running was supposed to quell my racing mind, to return memories to a watery grave.
The first runs were plodding, all about continuity and persistence. As the weeks went on and my body found its cadence, my mind discovered a rhythm of its own. Runs became times of reflection and integration. Rather than jettisoning my memories, I was creating a new story, one of acceptance, for myself and others. Each workout became a little easier. Without much effort, my times improved. I ran through reluctance, bad weather, and physical pain, all the while piecing myself back together. The movement of my body propelled my emotions forward.
Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat, a little faster now that gravity is with me. The final part of my run is sweet, a long downhill to our house in the flats. My husband and son have probably just left with the dog to greet me at the finish line. I’m looking forward to seeing them, to the run being over.
Across the street, a heavy-set woman slow jogs in the opposite direction. She shouts, “I just started running! Does it get any easier?”
“Yes! Yes it does!” I yell back. I see Jay rounding the corner with the stroller, my little one with a big smile on his face, the dog doing her waggle dance. I sprint for a hug, full of love, human and flawed.
The Running Back by Jennifer Trinkle, unless otherwise expressly stated, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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Comments
Jennifer,
This is an astonishingly honest, quite lovely piece. I just found your blog tonight and popped over to see what you had submitted here. Excellent writing (and the five stars are proof)!
This is a well crafted story, it comes on like a breeze but leaves you feeling moved and connected.The author’s words are even and flowing,the quality of writing here, reminds me of Carol Shields and if she published a novel, I would read her as eagerly. Beautifully told.
Good writing is music to my ears. Jennifer has a way of expressing her emotions into words that flows and connects thoughts that can only be accomplished when it comes from the heart and soul of the writer. Great Read - Lyn
From another thoughtful runner to you, Jennifer-
I understood every word. I was with your every foot-fall. I have shared many of these runs. Just as in your story, my tormented thoughts, memories and concerns always seem to work themselves out in the end. I don’t know what I’d do without my running shoes. Thanks for sharing your journey.
etta
I too must now catch my breath. Jennifer, my friend, your story as so many of the others you have written have touched my heart and soul so deeply that I cannot find the words to express how much I understand your every word.
A very dear friend of mine once told me that he felt quite comfortable around people who seemed a little crazy, but he feared those who claimed to be “normal.” I laughed as he said those words but agreed whole heartedly with him. In our insanity,his and mine, we found great sanity, understanding and acceptance.
Because of our imperfections, abnormalities and what others might have perceived as “damaged,” we saw the world so differently, felt what some others could not feel, knew what some others could not know and accepted what some others could not. Our imperfections made us different but they also made us better because we were more forgiving and understanding of those who were weak or simply different from the rest of the “normal” world.
Your stories, your writing and every thing in between that goes unsaid strikes a distinct cord with this reader. It reminds me that no one is ever really alone. You are brave and you are wise. Most importantly you are real. I don’t know too many people like that. I hope you allow this strength and courage to guide you to the great things that still await you.