Running. With Galileo.

~ Live & Learn

bird, nature, fly,wings,inspirational

Late (LATE) start. Galileo’s Sun is up. I look up and bask in its warmth. I start my run into a cold headwind. Fingertips tingling. My eyes, fill with water. Like mist on cold air over warm waters. This will clear.

Run by the corner of Noroton and Post Roads. Church Corner. Ascension Episcopal. Noroton Presbyterian. Christ Scientist. Churchgoers are filing in. Man cradling baby in a papoose. Families striding briskly, holding hands with their children. Lady holding kerchief in place from wind gusts. Elderly couple shifts right to let me pass. Community. Peace be with you too.

I usually run too early to see churchgoers. Not today. Guilt washes over me. Eric joined his friends in attending a eulogy yesterday. “Weird,” he described it. “Awkward not having been to church in years.” He lights my fuse using less than 10 words. Jung scolds: “Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.” Then Robert Fulghum piles on: “Don’t worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.” How quickly this has escalated. Yes, “my” Son – – he’s been watching. And now I’m irritated, here on Galileo’s beautiful Sunday. NO, gentlemen. Not today. You won’t get under my skin today. No sir.

A mile beyond God’s corner, I turn down Seaside Avenue. Sun is lighting up high tide on the Long Island Sound. Water is glistening and lapping the top of break wall. (Inuits’ whispering in the wind: Glorious to see. I think over again 
my small adventures, 
my fears.
 Those small ones that seemed so big — 
for all of the vital things I had to get and to reach
 and yet there is only one great thing, 
to live and see the great day that dawns
 and the light that fills the world.”
)

I pass a Snow Goose. Magnificent. Bright milk-white feathers. Carrot-colored orange beak preening its tail feathers. She turns her head in curiosity as if to say, “it’s all good.”

I pass Canada Geese. Mother. Father. And four little ones drafting behind. I pass Seagulls having breakfast – dropping clams from the air. I pass a retriever bounding after a Frisbee. I pass a fisherman in the midst of a long cast. I pass a child teetering on his new bike with his Dad scrambling to keep up. I pass a Robin digging through the grass in search of grubs.

(Navajos’ chanting now: “In beauty may I walk.
 All day long may I walk.
 Through the returning seasons may I walk. 
On the trail marked with pollen may I walk.
 With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk. 
With dew about my feet may I walk.
 With beauty may I walk.
 With beauty before me, may I walk. 
With beauty behind me, may I walk. 
With beauty all around me, may I walk.
 In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk. 
 In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk. 
 It is finished in beauty. 
 It is finished in beauty.”)

Time Check: 6.25 miles @ 59.52. Galileo, all you today Brother. All you.

Nap Time.

29 thoughts on “Running. With Galileo.”

  1. You write so beautifully, David, you really do. And the way you weave other source material in–masterful. Have I mentioned that I’m first in line for a (signed) copy of your memoir? 🙂

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  4. Do you take a little writer’s notebook with you or do you sit down later to ponder all you saw. If it’s the latter you’re enjoying your run twice without the muscle pain the second time.

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    1. Laughing. I’m just getting started. Since I ran 1.25 miles more than I intended, there’s extra treats! My mouth is watering reading your description. I need to find something close. 🙂

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  9. I’m reblogging this – there is nothing that touches me more than reading your thoughts during your weekend runs. You are an amazing writer David – I love your words, your rhythm, your process…Sondheim’s “Children Will Listen” – I think yours had a terrific parent to hear..

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  11. What jumped out at me was the aspect of guilt washing over you as your mind drifted while you jogged. What is it about our relationships and interactions that make us feel guilty? What could we do to severe our attachment to this dis-empowering thought?

    Loved the post.

    Shakti

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  13. David, I’m a bit behind in reading this post; I save yours for when I can savor them completely. This one didn’t disappoint–your writing is beautiful, descriptive, melodic; I feel like I was the one running, your words in cadence with the steps. I’ve come to really look forward to your posts. Thank you for sharing your gift with me.

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