This Christmas I went running.
It’s tradition.
I don’t know when exactly this custom of mine started, but for the past five or so odd years I have found myself pounding the pavement – sometime betwixt the hours of nine and five – come the twenty-fifth of December.
And I love it.
Many of you who read this blog know that I am a bit of a nut when it comes to running.
For those of who don’t, running is my meditation, my calm. It allows me to bring focus and clarity to the busiest (and most bonkers) of days; it allows me to both greet the morning sun, and to bask in the late afternoon dusk.
When I run, I am life.
I am love.
And on Christmas - a day that marks so much love and life, that is chock-a-block full of bustle, and laughter, of wrapping, and lace – I like to sneak away for a half hour or so.
I lace up my runners, and slip on a toque, and run, run, run, until my lungs fill with fire, and my eyes cry wind-swept tears, and my cheeks burn from the sun, and the fine sea salt spray – and I can feel my blood rushing from the top of my head, to the tips of my toes.
And with each stride, with each step, I feel this love and life.
So yesterday I ran.
From my mother’s house I flew – across park, road, and path, buoyed (or blasted) by strong gusts of wind, I raced up to the top of the Halifax Citadel.
My breath strong, yet steady, and my legs felt weightless (although that could have been the cold.)
And there, at the top, overlooking all of the city -
I felt on top of the world.
