The road and me. That was all there was for an hour this morning.
It started out as a typical Monday morning. Phone alarm. New typhoon news. Pancakes on teflon. Velcro on shoes. The One Who Spits making strange sense out of his random statements. Sandwiches in lunchboxes. School bus.
The noise eventually got to me and I needed quiet. I knew I needed to run, although the last time I ran was close to a decade ago. I didn’t really quiet down at the beginning. I ran on the road, see, and nothing is noisier than the road on the first day back at school and work after almost a week of flooded house arrest. Impatient car horns, persistent taho vendors, hostile chained dogs, gossiping grandfathers by their doorways. The cacophony just wouldn’t let up.
Then I found my rhythm. And everything else was muted. All I felt were my shoes on cement. All I heard was my heartbeat. All I did was breathe in, breathe out. All I saw was the road ahead.
The things inside me that needed clarity, the muddled goals that needed purpose, the ideas that needed words, the faith that needed courage — they crowded around and jostled for attention. But what I did was just put one foot in front of the other and run. And eventually, I found what I was looking for.
It felt magical to be quiet. Funny how people regard me as odd when I sit still and not talk. For some reason, they associate stillness and silence with unfriendliness, haughtiness, or dullness. They don’t hear the vastness of silence or the music in one’s veins.
The phone was ringing when I got home. And because I was able to step off the world for an hour while I ran, I didn’t dodge the call like I sometimes do. I’d made like Usain Bolt. And so I was, once again, ready to listen.