Running with Scissors.

“When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.” –Eric Liddell, Chariots of Fire

Out of the many things I do that make very little sense to many people, perhaps the one which makes the least sense is how much I love to run. Unless you are a runner as well, there appears very little purpose or practicality in running for miles and miles with no decided destination besides returning to where you started. And yet, compulsively my soul grows hungry for the rhythm of my feet against the ground, to feel the echo of my footsteps resounding through the dirt.

On the beach, running is a song. It’s like each breath in and then out is the crescendo or the melody that you sing with the sound of the waves as they too move in, and then out. But, despite all of the power in your own body, the force in each muscle to move your legs further down the beach, you are so frail compared to the surging and ever approaching salt water. And so exists a mutual respect between the sea and the runner. The sea does not cross its boundaries, the runner knows his place. Jumping in and out of the sea foam, avoiding sharp shells, splashing through the tide pools, blisters form on the bottom of feet so used to being  confined in a pair of shoes. The sand though, is not like the ocean. It is resistant to the interruption of an intrusive runner in its fragile rest, piece lying precariously upon piece. And so it moves to make the ache in your calves grow with intensity, never supporting the push off, scratching and biting at your bare feet. But, the soothing salt water rinses off the anger of the sand, and instead makes the sand cooperate, binding the pieces together, restoring unity between the runner and the sea.

In the woods where I run, the trees bend down. They are the admirers of the creatures who can move, living their movement through the footsteps of the runners passing by. And the path carries my red shoes for the miles, but strikes back if I step too hard, reminding me I am only human and my fragile legs can be hurt if I run too long. But, the bond between runner and nature grows, as I run my same path day after day, and look down to see my own footsteps still etched in the soft dirt from yesterday’s run, or the day before. The path remembers the energy and rejoicing between my soul and the soul of my Creator experiencing creation, and preserves the reminder that I have been here. I have seen what too many people pass by. Each puddle is a hurdle, each bird is cheering the runner by, each twig that snaps is a word to endure from the earth who understands what it is to grow tired, and to be overused, out of breath.

Why do I run? Because. Because I can. Because that dull pain which starts throbbing in my muscles is really just the story of another adventure; on the beach, through the words, in the city, traversing the world. Because it is the one place in which all of my senses interact to make me feel at home, to make me feel complete. My mind, my body and my soul. I hear the sound of the waves, or the  stillness of the woods. I feel my body creating a rhythm and all parts of my working together to continue each step. I see the beauty around me, the sunshine and the sky, the sandpipers and the seagulls. I smell the salt, the fish, the pinecones and the dying leaves. And I taste the sweat that drips down my face, the chapstick which protects my lips and melts away as my run grows longer. There are more reasons than could possibly be explained by words, because it is a holistic “because” why I run.