Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually.
~ Richard Louv

Running was a big part of my childhood. I didn’t walk. I ran.
I remember running full-tilt into the lake every day in the summer.
Running in the night to catch flickering fireflies. They left me breathless.
Where DID that light come from?
Running games. Like tag and hide-and-seek.
Running from mosquitoes without success.
Running into nettles by mistake. Painful.
Running to find a mason jar with a lid after I found a caterpillar.
Running to find a hammer and nail so I could poke holes for the caterpillar to breathe.

Running was to play and celebrate with nature.
Running was freedom.
Running was a source of creation.
Running was a joyful response to life.

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When not running, I remember equally blissful moments – of stillness and silence.
Being still while picking blueberries, constantly on the lookout for bears.
I remember the varied harmonics of the winds in the trees.
Wind in pines is different from wind in birch.
Taking in how the green leaves of birch trees silently turned to gold in the fall.
And how that made the pines next to them look even greener than ever.
My most special place to be still was by a fresh water spring that came out of nowhere.
Where DID that water come from?
The bright sounds and delicious taste of the freezing cold spring water.
The area around it: a vivid green bog, sublime with its brilliant yellow cowslips.
I wrote in my first diary there. It was pink and it had a key so no one else could read it.

Not running was to experience nature’s embrace.
Not running was freedom.
Not running was a source of creation.
Not running was a joyful response to life.