This is the third year in a row that I am running the Honolulu Marathon. I arranged a training group through MeetUp that helped me get through the miles. We meet Saturdays 6 am, outside Kahala Mall Whole Foods. A wanna-be astronaut, Marine physician, construction company owner and a Ukranian ex-patriate helped me log the miles, down Kalanianaole Highway or to Kapiolani Park. Eventually the training group dwindles down to just one person.
I have plenty of time to ruminate over Isaac's last year at high school, Alanna's future career as a physician assistant, arguments with Rosanna, problems at work, shortage of money, aspirations to become somebody, my parents declining health. And feeling like I have a hand at times on my shoulder that guides me through these decisions. Wondering where that hand is when I feel adrift and bereft. Thinking on the phrase 'on earth as it is in heaven', and what it would be like to return to the Garden of Eden with a young strong body. The meaning of 'perpetuity' and how forever and ever is impossible to grasp when all we know is change, a beginning and an end. How I sat in Catholic school envisioning an infinite universe and could not. All I could imagine is going a very far distance and then seeing a wall made out of bricks. The meaning of individuality vs. the collective. How I am a part of a tribe that rebelled. But I personally did not rebel! An existentialist notion. Anyways I am far from spotless. By myself I can do nothing. How busy society bees and diversions serve to distract from an underlying reality. And just how did Trump win the presidency? How can I touch the eternal? I feel my spirit leaping up at times via music or when the endorphins are popping and the dopamine flowing. Why is it a constant struggle to get there and maintain?
The start line is replete with bodies, humanity's mass pushing forward, running to finish the race. The dark streets, the bright Christmas lights, the lightening of the sky as dawn breaks. Cool and cloudy, a chill rain falls, the swift and few flying back down the highway, faces creased with sweat and pain, followed by the horde: the Japanese man in wooden clogs, the military guys carrying the flag, countless tourist walkers. The anchoring of identity on race or nationality or gender or special interest group. How one way transcends small categories but it is narrow and divisive and can pit race, nation, gender, family against one another. Oh the glory of a cold towel pressed against my face, the satisfaction of a banana, the joy of pain cessation and the crossing of the finish line. The malasadas! And the beer and the nap. So wonderful.
I have plenty of time to ruminate over Isaac's last year at high school, Alanna's future career as a physician assistant, arguments with Rosanna, problems at work, shortage of money, aspirations to become somebody, my parents declining health. And feeling like I have a hand at times on my shoulder that guides me through these decisions. Wondering where that hand is when I feel adrift and bereft. Thinking on the phrase 'on earth as it is in heaven', and what it would be like to return to the Garden of Eden with a young strong body. The meaning of 'perpetuity' and how forever and ever is impossible to grasp when all we know is change, a beginning and an end. How I sat in Catholic school envisioning an infinite universe and could not. All I could imagine is going a very far distance and then seeing a wall made out of bricks. The meaning of individuality vs. the collective. How I am a part of a tribe that rebelled. But I personally did not rebel! An existentialist notion. Anyways I am far from spotless. By myself I can do nothing. How busy society bees and diversions serve to distract from an underlying reality. And just how did Trump win the presidency? How can I touch the eternal? I feel my spirit leaping up at times via music or when the endorphins are popping and the dopamine flowing. Why is it a constant struggle to get there and maintain?
The start line is replete with bodies, humanity's mass pushing forward, running to finish the race. The dark streets, the bright Christmas lights, the lightening of the sky as dawn breaks. Cool and cloudy, a chill rain falls, the swift and few flying back down the highway, faces creased with sweat and pain, followed by the horde: the Japanese man in wooden clogs, the military guys carrying the flag, countless tourist walkers. The anchoring of identity on race or nationality or gender or special interest group. How one way transcends small categories but it is narrow and divisive and can pit race, nation, gender, family against one another. Oh the glory of a cold towel pressed against my face, the satisfaction of a banana, the joy of pain cessation and the crossing of the finish line. The malasadas! And the beer and the nap. So wonderful.
No comments:
Post a Comment