Maybe it is the season, but it seems the fog is slowly lifting. The weather has shifted into a tolerable sixty degree range (though supposed to warm to 80 by Christmas), the kids are jubilant, reactions are reacting for Marc at work, and I feel alive again. I can run.
Of all the things and people that carry me through turbulent times, no one understands me like my running shoes. They don't challenge my sanity with how many miles I want to run injured. They never complain about the heat of the pavement or the wet of the puddles. Somehow, my shoes are always just there for me without judgement or criticism. Running will always be my therapy and simple pleasure. How grateful I am to be alive and with two legs to run on.
With little enthusiasm, I am trying to decide which race to sign on for. I am having trouble with the excitement part because I worry my feet will fail me. They still cause me great misery, but even without running I am in pain, so off I go. My new approach to this injury, much like with other facets of my world as it were, I am going to ignore the negative. I am not going to feed into the blue and dismal, but love and nurture what is good and positive. I'll let you know how this works once both feet are casted and I'm on crutches, but until then, I am going to enjoy the endless bridge loops.
