It was my first long run after the marathon, which had taken place two weeks before. It was also my first run after attending my inaugural improv class at Chicago’s Second City. In that class we were gazing softly on the world during one exercise, and homework was to do more of the same, to exercise what is, at least for me, a weak muscle.
It was a lovely way to run. Seeing the perpendicular buttressing of porch roofs, the straight lines juxtaposed with the spiral motifs that decorated them on the houses along Eugenie. Feeling concrete give way to compact earth, and then the soft grass under my feet. My shirt pulled a little more tightly across my right scapula, and made that part of my body more sensitive to the warmth of the sun when I emerged from the trees onto an exposed part of the track.
The cool breeze on my left ear tickled as I took in the shouts from flag football on that side, contrasting with the swoosh of traffic on my right. And all the while the hard but forgiving plastic of my watch strap was bouncing gently over the bones of my wrist.
I took in shapes, sensations, smells, sounds, patterns, colours, and all as I continued to gaze softly.
I found patterns in the way my heart, breath, and cadence played off of one another. I watched others, how they ran, their symmetry, noting how heavily and noisily they moved.
The run passed in no time. I found a different way to experience a route I’ve run many many times before. Nothing in life is boring if we find the right way to enjoy it, by gazing softly.
