How my Daily Run Became a Spiritual Meditation

    Last month, my dad invited me to a running group based on the Nike Run Club App. The  group does challenges every month and he convinced me to take part in the 30-mile challenge. This broke down into one mile per day, a seemingly easy “challenge” as far as they go. However, anyone who’s known me for much of my life can tell you that I’ve always been a sprinter in the most extreme sense. My middle school years are haunted by gym class mile times of 15 minutes and I can’t think of my brief stint on the track team without thinking about how it took me 90 seconds to run a 400 meter race during a tournament. Despite my misgivings, the lack of a gym had me ready to explore any and all forms of exercise and so I dove in.

    The first two weeks of the month weren’t bad. I was running about 1 ½ miles each day and consistently clocking in at around 12 minutes per mile. I was proud to have come down to 12 minutes after starting off the first day of the month at around 13 minutes. Every day I went out on what was closer to a light jog than an actual run, but I resigned myself to the idea that it would probably take me the entire month to really see a significant improvement. Just when I was getting used to this routine, my dad informed me that the group leader had announced that it was time for a self-assessment. This self assessment called for each member of the group to run just one mile as fast as we could and record our time to really assess our skills. This honestly sounded dreadful. While I didn’t mind my jogs, I have always associated true running with the sensation of gasping for air and painful cramping in my legs. But the thing getting me through workouts since March has been a combination of anxiousness about losing mucle mass and a strangely competitive desire to prove to no one in particular that the gym isn’t the only place that an effective workout can take place. Just like when he first suggested I join the challenge group, I plastered a smile on my face and asked my dad what time he would be ready to head out.

    We left the house around 5pm. My dad was finally finished with the work day and the weather was just beginning to cool down from the high heat of noon. I began the ritual of opening the Run Club app and listening to the countdown while preparing myself to run with the fervor of someone about to climb Mount Everest. I was way too nervous for someone running for fun with her dad as her only witness. When the timer went from 1 to go, I took off at the pace I imagined appropriate to run the best mile of my life. When the app informed me that I had reached 0.5 miles in less than 5 minutes I was ecstatic! But by the time I reached the 0.7 mark, I felt the familiar discomfort starting to set in. I knew I was close but I couldn’t help but focus on how fast my heart was beating and how much my legs felt like jello. I struggled along on the pavement as a familiar  inner monologue began to form. The words rang out in my head as loudly as if I were gasping them aloud, “I can’t breathe”. As soon as the thought formulated, intertwined memories of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd hit me with enough force to make me want to stop mid-run. I was suddenly reminded of the glorious fact that I very much could breathe and I felt an overwhelming urge to thank God for that breath running through my lungs. 

    Once I expressed recognition for this gift, my entire perspective changed. I began to notice the vibrant colors of the flowers on either side of me. The sound of birds chirping became clearer. The light of the sun somehow became brighter. This may sound like strange hippie ramblings, but whether you believe in God or not, there is scientific proof of the positive benefits of shifting our focus beyond ourselves and toward the vastness of the world we are a part of. In redirecting my focus, I came as close to the renowned “runner’s high” as I think I will ever be.

    Since that day, my inner monologue while running is no longer about the amount of time I have left to run or the fitness goal I want to achieve. Instead, each run is a prayer during which I celebrate the body that I have been given and the opportunity to use it to appreciate the world around me. I ponder the ways that I can use my legs not just to run a mile for fun, but to run toward the chance to help others in need. I reflect on the fact that my lungs supply a flow of oxygen while I am struggling to measure my breaths during a run and when I am engaging my diaphragm to belt out a song. And I think about how this is what fitness should be; not a process of beating our bodies into submission, but simply a method of honoring the blessing of being alive.