my word
Running in Place by rachel fiske
Photo: retrorocket/GettyImages.
I
am in between right now. My company is folding in November. We moved away from the city where we spent a decade. We are staying with my partner’s parents while we hunt for our next home, living two hours from the city in which we intend to land. We are waiting to put down roots and form new friendships and find new jobs. We are in the middle of the monkey bars, just hanging there, waiting to make our next move. This is not my kind of space. Some people — my partner for instance — hang out in limbo quite well. John remembers where we’re going, remembers that the space between moments of landing is just as legitimate as those seemingly sturdier moments. He finds the benefit in the unusual looseness of our lives. With my company winding down, there is time to sign off from work early and take a walk. With the grandparents in-house, we can go for dinner together without scheduling a babysitter a month in advance. If many hands make light work, then this work of figuring out our next steps is facilitated by all of the help we’re afforded by this stopover at his parents’ house. John knows we’ll return to city life soon, remembers all the summer nights I longed for fresh country air from our smoggy city stoop. Now that I’m breathing it in, though, I feel anxious. The days are going by, marked by the end of raspberry season in the backyard and the height of corn as we wind through the neighborhood, and I can’t see that we’re getting anywhere. Instead of loose, I feel stuck in the middle.
H
istorically averse to exercise, in my adult life I’ve found myself happily hiking or practicing yoga. I’ve felt proud of this shift, but also fiercely devoted to exercise that encourages the taking of breaks. With hiking there is always something to stop and marvel at — a view, a mushroom, the
light. In yoga, it’s always OK to return to child’s pose or downward dog, to seek stillness and reconnect with your breath. The idea of continuously breathing heavily by choice has always seemed like an indicator of low-grade insanity. To this end, I have proudly hung out in the camp of people who only run when they’re being chased. Until recently. Frustration has been growing in my body as we dangle in between. We can look for a new house and we can apply for new jobs, but when those two things actually come together is largely out of our hands. I realized I needed to force motion into my days or risk forgetting that we are actually moving toward something. I felt a pressing need to make and mark progress, to pound the building tension from my body. And so I did the unthinkable: I went for a run. It was awful. My glasses slid from my nose and my T-shirt rode up my back. My legs felt like lead. I stopped to walk three times. When I finally returned to the house, panting and blotchy-cheeked, I laughed when I realized the entirety of this horrible experience had lasted only 15 minutes. I don’t think I even made it a mile. I started to feel pathetic, but stopped myself, instead deciding to go again the next day. I would do better. I would know I did better. I would see myself getting somewhere. As I write this, it’s been a few weeks since I took my first running step. Now I run every other day. I am not going to tell you I like it. I am going to tell you, though, that I’m getting better at it. I no longer walk. I catch my second wind quicker and the boost that comes afterward sustains me longer. Every few days I increase my distance and every time I set out, I last a little longer. When I finish my body is loose, my brain is quiet. I know I am getting — indeed I already am — somewhere, and I am peaceful in my knowledge that patience is hard work. HL
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