Time is like a handful of sand, the tighter you grasp it, the faster it runs through your fingers.
My 20’s: That runner’s high! I love it! I feel like my feet are
six inches above the pavement and I could just keep running and running forever.
I stretch my runs longer and longer for pure pleasure until I just have to turn
back--reluctantly. I’m empowered and kind of in awe of my energy.
My 30s: My pregnancy decade. Three kids. I jog behind a
stroller with the firstborn; walk with a toddler while pushing a stroller with
the second born; walk slowly with my third, stopping so he can drop pebbles
down the drain or pat the doggie.
I go on occasional
walks or slow jogs on weekends or days when my husband is home with all three
kids. But I often choose to nap.
My 40s: My oldest babysits for thirty minutes so I can go out
for a walk. I call it my “by-by walk.” “Mommy’s going for a by-by walk,” I say
to soothe my youngest, who cries when I leave, until he catches on that I’m not
gone long.
He waves by-by out the window as I "power walk" down the side walk on
my prescribed route. I return home feeling like I’ve done my duty on behalf of
fitness. But where's the joy?
And soon my youngest is running.
And soon my youngest is running.
My 50s: My husband has always been a jogger. We jog a
four-mile route around the neighborhood streets. I’m proud I can keep up with
him, mostly, and if not, he paces himself for me. I set him free the last half
mile or so. He’s in the house when I jog into the driveway. I take to walking
on the treadmill at the Y. 
Then my husband gets cancer! I crumble emotionally. I sleep
late. I don’t feel like exercising. All the weight I’ve lost comes back, and
more. I worry. For him. For me. For us both.
Then my ankle goes wonky--a tendon tear, bad mechanics—and I’m suddenly
wearing an ankle orthotic. I’ll need it for life my doctor says. I feel unplugged.
I won’t jog again; I maybe could, but really. Why? But I can still walk. I find peace in the
slower pace, peace in accepting the physical restrictions of aging.
It’s
freeing.
Bittersweet, but freeing.
There is no need to compete with others or myself. Or count my
steps. Or go fast..if I don’t want to.
I bring my camera along as I walk and
the sun points out photos for me to shoot. I meditate. I pray. I write stories
in my head. I solve problems. Solutions unfold with each footfall...as does
peace.
My 70’s--coming soon: I don’t know what the next decade will bring. But if I’m fortunate, there will still be walks...on the beach, down country lanes, in the woods. Alone or with friends who want to chat. With my camera or not. Walks that heal the soul and clear the mind.
And, yes, I still run in my mind, at times...and wish I
could break into that remembered runner’s high. One does not forget the wings
of youth.
The key is finding joy and contentment on the continuum of life. This
I discover as I walk in the frosty breeze on a sunny winter’s day.
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