This is that.
As many of you know, when I run it serves several purposes.
One: The obvious one. I am a triathlete and we finish every race with one.
Two: The creative imperative is served as mind is trained along with body.
Three: My community janitorial responsibility.
While one and two are glaringly obvious, three is a touch odd, it runs amok, you might say. As explanation please allow the executive summary to advise.
When I run I pick up trash and carry it to the next receptacle, can, barrel or bin. There it is disposed of properly providing a small service to my current community. Yesterday I was passed my a friend (driving a SUV so big I had to bail to the ditch because this course has a shoulderless stretch that isn't wide enough for the two of us). She saw me and we made eye-contact at thirty-six miles an hour. Her thirty-five and my one. I know that she also saw the Starbucks venti cup (filled - with no room for cream - full of cigarette butts, bottle caps and crushed potato chip bags). I assume (until we next meet and I inquire) that she thinks I might be the most pretentious and pompous prick on the planet. Jogging with a giant cup of coffee? As douchy as it gets.
I laughed out loud and continued my run. BUT, and here is the therapy part, as I was on my way, en route to a PR, a legitimate climb up one rung, I passed a green beer bottle hiding in some shaggy laurel. I hit the brakes, elapsed time running and flashing in my mind, when I made the decision that this run was important enough to justify a, "I'll come back later and pick it up." defense.
Right.
The day, as they say, got away (the responsibility equivalent of the rain in Spain). It got away until I entered deep REM after our second workout of the day, a wonderful dinner of roasted corn and Chinese noodles, two Session IPAs and two gut-wrenching episodes of 24 (Jack is dying).
I can't relate the entire dream sequence, maybe later, but here is the gist: I am leading a group of people through a crowded outdoor food court. The smells are intense and I am in my usual role of attempting to manufacture consent. I am selling something with the product one I totally believe in. We are here because we share a common belief and I have the ways and means to advance it to the next level. I am carrying a brief case. As we pass an open room there is a meeting taking place, I recognize one of the attendees and he smiles seeing me. I dip my head into the room and, much like Norm in Cheers, everyone salutes in four-part harmony. I get the slight sensation that my clients will be impressed by my notoriety.
Then I am running in Moab. Fearlessly and joyously in a part mountaineering and part parkour escape at full speed. For once, however, I am not being chased, I am chasing. I see things flash by as I run fast as a sure-footed mountain goat. I see a bike, my old Softride, Panama Red, I see hand tools, a rake, a broom and a shovel, I see beautiful women, tanned and trim, I see an aboriginal squatting by a fire glaring at me with red eyes, knowingly and compassionately.
I get back to wherever I was going, and see the POTUS sitting with my Dad. She says, 'Where have you been?"
All I can say is, "I lost a day."
And I see the green glass still littering the garden of Eden.
The therapy helps.
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