Sorting through moving boxes, I found this prose poem that I wrote in one of my old journals. Separated by years and changed life circumstances, I still feel the sentiments expressed here as I once again run on a dreary November day …
It was a feeling more than a conscious determination, an impulse fed by a thought reaching past the mind into the recesses of the soul.
Spurned by a restless unknowing, I look past the flat screen of normalcy and conformity. The letters and words repeat messages of hypnotic emulation: want more, be more, get more. The flashing cursor replaces the pulsing heart of human touch and sentiment. There must be something more. Must the rhythm of my life find reference in the mechanic, creatic reality of modernity?
In the face of confusion, the fight or flight syndrome initiates and I opt for the comfort of flight. So I run. Out the door and down the street. The November wind whispers utterances of an unfamiliar dialect. Houses hold secrets–who lives there and what lives do they live? Surrounded by people yet strangely solitary, I venture further.
What path to take? There are signs all around, familiar reassurances that “all is well.” But no … how do they know? So I travel along the lonely road leaving behind the developments of cookie-cutter happiness. The empty fields stretch, reaching into the distance.
November seems the saddest month to me. The earth is stripped of its green lush yet the blanket of snow is not extant either. Rather, the ground is bare, naked to the eye in its bleak, dead reality. It is harsh and sorrowful.
The steady beating of my feet on asphalt with its soothing predictably comforts my distressed soul. Breathe in, breathe out. Simplicity counters the overwhelming chaos of change.
Still I am alone. No cars pass. No passerby along this empty stretch of space. Above the sky looks upon me with an ominous glare. Black clouds mesh into a threatening mass of darkness. As far as east to west they press down upon me, echoing the smothering sentiment that first sent me along this escape. It is apocalyptic in its threat and as I run under its dominion, I wonder what would happen if this is the end.
I didn’t see it at first. I imagine it happened as unobtrusively as a seedling sprouting. There, at the edge of the western sky a ray of golden light escapes past the darkness. Then another and another. I run, my face feeling the full onslaught of the November wind. Meanwhile the setting golden sun opens its spotlight and embraces me, like an actor on stage.
I am awash in its warmth and glow. The November bleakness cannot match this awesome miracle of beauty. The radiant light falls upon dead plants and brown earth. Everything is suddenly beautiful and I—I am the only one to witness this display.
I run and the sun pierces my soul. My shadow grows, becoming a massive, impressive figure before me. I have done nothing but suddenly, I have reached almost an insurmountable height.
A profound moment in the regularity of life.
I smile as I run home. I am comforted without words, without sound. The Son teaches me, once again, what I already know. The lesson is worth eternity: with Him we become what we are fashioned to be, like a shadow is taller than its reality.
I still think November the saddest month. But when its bleakness seeps into my soul, I look for the Son.
