On a Mother’s Day, a man in the grip of addiction, encounters a Reiki healer, a healing tree, and the grief he thought he had detoured around when he lost his Mom 13 years earlier.
It is clear to me that running is in our human cells. It is part of our biology, of our evolutionary imagination. We are part of something much greater than ourselves when we get out of the door and start out down the road…
“I woke up this morning in the arms of a nightmare. It got better after that.” Michael Lebowitz explores the darkness and faith is this moving vignette.
Knowing that when a friend is running out beyond his comfort zone, we are together wherever else we may be. It is always one step, then another — a journey from where we were to wherever we are going that enriches all of us.
When I’m writing, like I was this morning, I am reminded that my father would probably hate the whole thing. Other people did that. Writers are important, but you, son… — he would have left the rest unsaid. He would have dismissed the writing, the words themselves, the subject matter, my attitude, my not having […]
I never went to the war. Sometimes I think I missed something very important. Like the ripples on the pond echoing down the years, there seems to be no missing anything. All it takes is time.
A runner who isn’t running contemplates what the day will hold and feels an urge to run with the ghosts of his past.
A runner on the edge of winter, ponders the other side of love, and finds clarity “just a little futha” down the road.
A runner thinks about a friend who may be dying, and gains insight from the meditative practice of putting one foot in front of another.
Out running in the early morning, Michael’s feet move forward as his mind moves back.