And what can I possibly say about running, except that it has impossibly changed for me in one moment of time (because we know that a moment of time can last an infinity of seconds)? Where before I heard of people talking about how running was an addiction to them, and I thought I knew what they meant--I realize now that I had no concept of what it can be. I ran a marathon yesterday. I have never, ever in my entire life felt the same euphoria as I did then--both after the race and even during the most agonizing portions of it. How can I explain this to someone who has not experienced it themselves, when I know how little I understood it before, comparatively? I did something I never thought I could do--even in the moments when I was actively doing it. I did not believe I could run 26.2 miles--I'm not a runner, and I never have been. And yet, through God's grace (because that was most certainly present) I ran and I persevered through those moments when all I wanted to do was cry because it hurt so much and I was so exhausted from the sheer effort of carrying that determination and maintaining those simple commands to my legs and my arms to keep moving no matter what.
For the first time in my life, I wanted to cry from the sheer beauty of what I was doing--because I felt that greatness that is perseverance and raw will and the total submission of self to the moment. The absolute euphoria that comes from knowing you cannot do the thing you are doing--what can I possibly compare that to?
And the finish line! To have that accomplishment directly behind you, to be staggering to water because you hurt so much and every single muscle in your legs is cramping and your arms are tense and you find you are trembling from cold and exertion and shock that you made it through. To have no greater desire than to curl up in a ball and simply not run. To drink water like you've never had it before and the be reeling under the weight of the most unexpected and hard-earned victory. And the sheer runner's high--continuing on for hours upon hours and the victory music plays in your head to a beat all its own.

I want to run another marathon right now. I wanted to last night. How is it fair to have to rest and heal? I crave running right now like nothing I've ever physically craved. I have to keep myself from lacing up my shoes so that I can go out and pound pavement--even when I can barely walk down the steps, I ache to run. I think I'm going crazy.

There is an image I hold in my heart; a reality which I cling to in those moments when I want nothing more than to scream and run and curl into a ball and hide and explode and never look back or face the vast horrible crazy empty fullness of the world around me. In my mind, in my mind when all that is me wants to weep tears from every fibre of my being, I find myself at the edge of a cliff. I extend my arms, and I close my eyes, and I take a moment to notice the air is warm and soft around me as I simply let go. I do not jump, I do not step forward: one moment my feet cling to the edge and the next I am free and I am falling into the most safe and warm and wonderful atmosphere imaginable. And what lies below, I do not know--but I know that in the falling, I am cherished, and I am safe, and I am out of reach of all that would tear my soul to shreds. In the falling, I have choice, and I surrender it completely with the entirety of my body and soul.

And all outside, the world is screaming at me. All outside, there is the rude, condescending jabber of customers, the angered frustration of family, the greedy reachings of friends, the confused wantyou-don'twant of boyfriends-in-leaving, the careless anarchy of a world where I matter less than a dried smear of avocado on the floor. And yet, inside, my soul is a peace--released to a world of falling into sunshine, into starlight, into liquid surrender.

And then there are those of us whose hands and arms are mottled with snaking scars of deep purple and silver, with bruises roughening the knuckles and bloodied smears for cuticles. We don't know how we came by these because we were so involved in the doing that the small, ugly costs of that involvement never occurred until too late.
This is true in my life, and yet not true enough. How is it that I simply cannot dive so fully and so deeply into what truly matters in life, bearing those scars with joy and pride and a deep sense of satisfaction in the same way that I relish the markings of physical achievement?